Mortal Ground 'Book 2: Dust to Dust'
by thenyxie
Summary: COMPLETE. Watcher dead, Angel gone, Faith is forced to ally with her former enemies, the Scoobies. Darkness threatens all as the enemy's plot unfolds and the new allies struggle to trust each other, while beneath the earth even darker revelations await.
1. Mortal Ground 2 Chapter 1: Reset

**Mortal Ground - Book Two: Dust to Dust  
**  
MAIN CHARACTERS: Faith, Spike, Giles, Willow, Xander, Tara, Anya, Angel  
SECONDARY CHARACTERS: Dawn, Tenth (OC), Fox (OC)  
OTHER CHARACTERS: There are tertiary characters, cameos, and of course, surprises!  
RATING: R (violence, sex, adult language and situations)  
PREVIOUSLY: If you have not read Mortal Ground Book One, I highly recommend that you do so. It's not _completely_ necessary to understand what's happening, but it will greatly increase your enjoyment of this story.   
SUMMARY: Angel gone, her Watcher dead, Faith finds herself allied with her former mortal enemies, the Scoobies. Her new enemy's mysterious plot begins to unfold as together they are drawn ever deeper into a twisted web of deceit. Suspicions and mistrust abound as the Scoobies struggle to come to terms with their new ally, Faith continues her battle to prove herself worthy of the Slayer mantle, and fear of betrayal threatens to tear apart their tenuous alliance. Meanwhile, one of their number is drawn increasingly toward the side of darkness, and even darker revelations await them all beneath the earth...  
NOTES: This story is an epic. Book One began about two weeks after the events of "The Gift". Book Two picks up where Book One left off, about three months or so after Faith's arrival in Sunnydale. This story is meant to span the course of, and will incorporate some of the character plot lines of, Season 6. However, Faith's presence has affected the way a lot of events unfolded and this story will explore those differences.  
SPOILERS: Through S6  
STATUS: Complete as of 11/24/2003  
DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to Mutant Enemy, except Tenth, Fox and most of the bad guys; they know which ones are theirs (and likely you do, too). The background is mostly theirs. The story is almost all mine. Songs lyrics belong to their respective owners, as noted.  
_______________________________________________________  
  
Throw off your golden light  
And shed it all around  
Burn as the moon at midnight  
Rise and fall straight down   
  
Mortal ground  
  
Don't turn your back against the wind  
She's psycho crazy, but she draws you in  
Close your eyes and free fall  
Rise and fall straight down  
  
Mortal ground  
  
See how it twists and breaks  
This fate  
  
            ~Mortal Ground, Rhea's Obsession  
  
_______________________________________________________  
  
CHAPTER 1: RESET  
  
And you may find yourself   
living in a shotgun shack  
And you may find yourself   
in another part of the world  
And you may find yourself   
behind the wheel of a large automobile  
And you may find yourself   
in a beautiful house,   
with a beautiful wife  
And you may ask yourself—  
Well... How did I get here?  
  
            ~Once in a Lifetime, The Talking Heads  
  
______________________________________________  
  
"I can't believe you brought her here," Giles hissed in angry undertones, his composure tight with barely restrained tension. He started to rest his arm on the doorframe to the bedroom, then seemed to change his mind, slipping his hand into his pocket and then pulling it right back out. Finally, he decided to settle for pulling off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose.  
  
"I can't believe you let me in," Spike admitted. He'd been more than entertained by the days events already. Giles' expression alone when he'd opened the door had been worth the price of admission. Of course, after spending a good piece of the morning sneaking Faith out of the hospital while trying not to burst into flame, he supposed anything could seem fun by comparison.  
  
"Believe me, I'm already regretting it." Giles pushed his glasses back on and glanced at Faith's still form, her body secured hand and foot to the bed with steel chains. "So long as she stays… secured, I suppose everything will be all right until… I figure out what I should do."  
  
"You're not going to call the Council?"  
  
"Well, I-I haven't contacted them yet, but of course it's my duty to inform them that she's escaped…" he trailed off, seeming agitated, confused.  
  
Spike cocked his head to one side, trying to puzzle that one out. He'd figured Giles would be on the horn to the Council no sooner than they'd chained Faith to the bed. "Escaped?" he echoed. And then he understood. "Oh… right. They didn't tell you, did they?" he asked in that infuriating I-know-something-you-don't-know tone of voice that grated on Giles' nerves like few other things. "Bastards," he added with a shake of his head and a snort.  
  
"Quite," Giles agreed with polite sarcasm. "I do hope you included yourself in that quaint little categorization."  
  
"Keep your trousers on, I'm getting to it," Spike said, edging on annoyance. "I meant your old Council buddies. They were the ones got her out of prison. She's been in town for a long while now."  
  
"What?" Giles appeared mystified. "You mean… they—they've reinstated her as the Slayer? A-and, and they didn't contact me? How could they? Are you sure?" He went through the series of questions with an equal progression of emotions, from baffled, to angry, to suddenly scrutinizing of Spike. "Where is her Watcher?" he asked triumphantly, as if he'd just found the question to stump the vampire.  
  
"Dead," Spike replied briefly.  
  
Giles' entire demeanor changed and all the anger seemed to drain out of him. He gave Faith another awkward glance, touched by pity for her for a brief moment, remembering what had happened to her other Watchers. "Dear Lord—dead?" He looked back at Spike, blue eyes holding and piercing the vampire's intently. "Why? What happened?"  
  
"She didn't play nice with the local vampires?" Spike offered with a shrug.  
  
"She had a scroll," spoke up a slightly groggy voice from the bed. Both turned to look at Faith, just waking from her drug-induced sleep, and she gave them an appraising look, offering a pale shadow of her usual smart-assed smile. "Kinky," she added, tugging gently at the bonds on her wrist, almost seeming to approve. "You know," she went on, seeming to gain clarity even as she warmed to the subject, "if you guys wanted to play master and servant, you could have just asked."  
  
Spike smirked and shook his head once. He'd figured she'd wake up thrashing and screaming mad at being brought here, and there she was, just as cool as could be, cracking jokes and acting like being chained to the Watcher's bed was the most natural thing in the world. Be damned if she didn't keep surprising him.  
  
"Y-you're being cooperative?" Giles seemed disconcerted by the idea.  
  
She shrugged whimsically. "Why not? I mean, we _do_ have the same bosses," she added with a smile, letting it dig just a little. "We're practically intimate already."  
  
"Er… right," he commented doubtfully and then let the matter go, eager to ignore her not so subtle attempts at innuendo and too curious about the item she'd mentioned to question her status with the Council any further at the moment. "Ah… what scroll?"  
  
The question seemed to surprise her—though given that she'd initiated it, it hardly should have—and she flinched as if it had hit her like a blow. The smile dropped from her face as if it had never existed, leaving her pale, sullen and morose as the shadow of memory stole over her.   
  
Suddenly Giles found it hard to look at her. How many times had he seen that look on Buffy's face? The burden, the sorrow of the Hellmouth made flesh and bone, given human form; the one who bore it all so the rest of the world wouldn't have to. He knew that expression, but he could not lend it the credence it perhaps deserved. Not on _her_ face.  
  
She appeared to debate for a moment and then shrugged in resignation. "A restoration ritual," she answered dully. "I don't know who for."  
  
"Whom," Giles corrected automatically.  
  
"That too. Hell," she added almost glibly, the lost look vanishing as her mental armor slid back into place. "I don't even know who wanted the damned thing so bad." Her eyes narrowed then, tightening in anger, and her voice dropped dangerously low. "But they burned down my house and killed my Watcher to get it. When I find out…"  
  
She trailed off and Giles stood silent, as if he had lost his place in the conversation, staring thoughtfully off into space. Spike cut them both an odd, sideways look, but neither responded, seeming lost in their own worlds of thought.  
  
After a moment, Giles seemed to return to himself and find his place. "Yes… well… perhaps I should make us all some tea and you can start from the beginning."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith had tried to add upright and chainless to that attempt at hospitality, but Giles wouldn't even consider it until after he'd heard her whole story. So she'd told it, almost exactly as it had happened, leaving out the details about Angel's departure and omitting the parts about the Scoobies and Buffy all together; it wasn't as if he would have wanted to know, or believed her at any rate. At last, she stumbled through the last bit about finding Beatrice, ending on an awkward note, and she cast about for the right words to finish with. Something smooth and glib to cap it all off, something to keep them from knowing how deeply it had all affected her.  
  
"I-I'm sorry, Faith," Giles said after a moment had passed. His eyes stuttered with his voice, and he looked down at the teacup in his hands. She believed him. Of all the Scoobies, he had always come across as the most honest and earnest, and despite his inherent, English stuffiness, he still managed to sound the least condescending.  
  
"Great," she answered moodily. A beat, and then, "Can I get up now?"  
  
Spike, who had been mostly silent through her exposition, arched a brow at him. "That _was_ the deal," he reminded Giles.  
  
"Y-yes, well… O-of course I… ahh…"  
  
"You're not going to welsh are you?" Spike asked, suddenly suspicious.  
  
Giles got to his feet and drew himself awkwardly up to his full height. "There's not a drop of Welsh blood in my body," he said indignantly. Then his posture seemed to slip a little with the guilt that was far too evident in his face. "I just thought it m-might be prudent to ah… wait for the others."  
  
Spike and Faith exchanged a warning glance.  
  
"Much as I'm all for bondage fun, I'd _really_ like to get up now," Faith said darkly, tugging at the chains again. _Fuck._ How was she going to explain this without pointing the finger at Willow and the others? He would think she was lying even if she told the truth, most likely, and here she was, strapped on her back, completely helpless in front of the people who hated her most. Experimentally, futilely, she tested her bonds. The only thing she received in the way of an encouraging response was a nasty twinge from her mending ribs that encouraged her not to try that anymore.  
  
"Bringing me here was a really bad idea," she hissed at Spike, who, to his credit, looked somewhat chagrined. He spread his arms in a wide "what else could I do" gesture and she growled her anger at him, tugging her arms against the chains uselessly.  
  
"Bad idea for who?" Xander asked meaningfully, stepping into the room. He took a look around, looked at Faith, and then did a double take, seeming suddenly, inexplicably, panicked.   
  
"I'm in Giles' bedroom with Spike and Faith's chained to the bed," he said, taking stock of the situation with a mildly frantic tone.  
  
"'Nother round of 'Whose Fantasy Is It?'" Spike asked with a smirk.   
  
"Nightmare!" Xander corrected anxiously with a sharp look at Spike. "This is so not right. What, you couldn't just duct tape her to a refrigerator?" He looked at Giles accusingly. Giles, for his part, seemed completely baffled.  
  
"Would that have been… better?"  
  
"Yes." Xander appeared to think about it. "Okay, no. But the mental scars would be smaller."  
  
"Xander…" Giles interrupted, sounding very tired. "Did you bring the others?"  
  
"Of course I did. They didn't want to come back here in case you were doing, you know, guy stuff." He glanced around again, seeming to hear the innuendo bounce back off the walls at him. "And now that I say that, I realize that it came out sounding a lot more gay than I intended it to and um, you want me to go get them?" he asked, one finger pointing lamely toward the living room.  
  
"Giles. Let me up." Faith's voice was edged with warning, but somehow it was almost a plea.  
  
Giles put his hands in his pockets and looked down, his inner struggle apparent on his face. He hadn't been very willing to help when Spike had shown up on his doorstep with the rogue Slayer, and even now he was only marginally convinced of what they said. Perhaps he should have waited until he'd spoken with the Council first, verified Spike's version of the story… but it was too late for that now.  
  
"I'm sorry, Faith," he said quietly, not looking at her. "Xander, get the others."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
After that, Faith went still in her bonds, resigned to whatever decision fate had in store for her next. Judging by the last few days, it probably wasn't going to be much of a winner, but the chains that held her to the wrought iron bed left her no other choice but to face it. The least she could do was have a little dignity. As much dignity as someone chained to a bed could have, at any rate.   
  
For a few moments, the room was absolutely still, and she had time to appreciate the sparse, clean decorating sense that seemed appropriate for a proper Englishman. From the corner of her eye she could see that Spike hadn't moved, still lounging in a straight wooden-backed chair near the curtained window. Giles she could see more clearly; he still stood with his hands in his pockets, his back almost turned to her, as silent and motionless as a statue. She thought about taunting him, calling him a coward even though she knew exactly why he'd left her like this. But for one of the few times in her life, she managed to hold her tongue, realizing that she had to play this carefully if she wanted to come out of it a free, still-breathing person. Besides, if they thought she was broken they wouldn't be watching her too closely, and she might be able to catch them off-guard and escape, if it came to that.  
  
Sounds of muffled movement from the hallway, and then voices, growing louder as they approached the bedroom. Predictably, perhaps, Willow came through the door first, and Faith supposed Giles or Xander or both of them must have warned her ahead of time, because she didn't seem surprised to see Faith at all.  
  
She looked at Faith with eyes that were difficult to read, and then she turned to Giles, getting straight down to business.  
  
"What did she tell you?"  
  
Spike uttered a mocking laugh and Willow cut him a nasty look, but he said nothing for once, seeming content to let it go at that. Nervously, her eyes skittered back to Giles', more uncertain than before, and Faith realized for the first time that Willow was almost as nervous as… well, as nervous as Faith _should_ have been, given her position.  
  
Giles looked at both of them askance, but before he could get out a word, Willow beat him to the punch.  
  
"It would have worked Giles. We were so close. And then she broke the circle and disrupted the spell." She pointed a damning finger at Faith. "Did she tell you that part? Did she tell you it's _her_ fault that Buffy isn't here with us right now?"  
  
Faith craned her neck, struggling to get a look at Giles' expression.  
  
He blinked, seeming perplexed by her unprompted speech… and then slowly, the surprise deepened, darkening the blue depths of his eyes, and then they hardened to diamond sharpness as understanding came. His entire posture seemed to shift in an instant, the lines in his face deeper somehow, sharper, more meaningful with their visibility. In that moment, the stuffy, always vaguely overwhelmed librarian disappeared completely, leaving behind a man whose gaze was sharp and predatory, whose entire form radiated with menace. This man was _dangerous_, and it was somehow impossible to compare him to the man of a moment before, even though they wore the same face.  
  
"You tried to bring Buffy back?" His voice was quiet darkness.  
  
With surprise and regret, Willow looked left, then right at the others who flanked her, realizing the mistake of her assumption. She took a hesitant half-step backward and bit down on her lip.  
  
"I was only trying to help. I-I thought—"  
  
"You didn't think at all," Giles contradicted harshly. He took a menacing step toward her, glowering. "Do you have any comprehension of the forces you were—were _toying_ with?"  
  
Willow's face flushed with anger at that, and she seemed to regain her courage, stepping forward to meet Giles with a hostile glare of her own. "I knew what I was doing! A little life essence from each of us and—"  
  
"Life essence?" he echoed in grim disbelief. "Willow, you could have died. Any of you could have died," he added, with a look at each of the Scoobies. "You could have brought back a monster, or become one, or unleashed hell on earth—"  
  
"Oh sure, get all holier than thou and Daddy Knows Best—but I don't see _you_ trying to figure out how to make things better. Look around!" She gestured about the room almost violently. "We're barely hanging on by our teeth these days, and the Hellmouth's not getting any warmer or fuzzier. Vampire activity is off the scale and we don't even know why! _And_ we've got a rogue Slayer on our hands! We _need_ Buffy."  
  
He considered her with a silent, angry look of disapproval that bordered on disbelief. "And you all supported this?" he asked, eyes traveling severely over the other Scoobies.  
  
Everyone seemed to falter for a moment, and then Xander stepped up behind Willow. "Willow wouldn't have done it if she didn't think it would be okay."  
  
Spike snorted laughter again, and this time every eye in the room turned to fall on him.  
  
"What?" he asked with shrug. "You think she kept this a secret from Giles and me because we're both British? Witch knew bloody good and well what the consequences could be. Knew we'd know what they were, too. _That's_ why she didn't tell us. Oh, the Watcher here wouldn't have let you do it for a lot of reasons, got to keep the balance of nature intact and such. But me, I wouldn't have let you do it simply because I wouldn't want to see what came back if it wasn't Buffy well and whole."  
  
"Th-that's not true," Tara said haltingly. "Willow is very g-good at what she does. Sh-she would n-never—"  
  
"That's right," Willow broke in, almost triumphantly. "I _am_ very good at what I do. _And_ I'm very powerful." For a moment, her voice seemed to border on threatening. She seemed about to say more, and then her expression softened. "It would have worked Giles. I could feel it working. And then…" she cast a dark look at Faith, suddenly reminding everyone of the Slayer's presence again. "She broke the circle."  
  
"Guess I get to be the blame monkey, huh?" Faith asked with a wry grin. "I mean hell, why not? I'm only the Slayer. You know, the one that gets prophetic dreams about things? Like Buffy coming back from the dead as a zombie? Or a vampire? Or hey, how about the one where she throws herself into the portal and finds peace for the first time in five years? I had _that_ one a lot. Still, I think the one where she shows up and sucks the blood out of my veins and kills me is my favorite. That one had punch to it."  
  
"You dreamed these things?" Giles asked in the ensuing silence.  
  
"In Technicolor with surround sound," she acknowledged with a brittle laugh. "That's why I had to stop them."  
  
"You?" Xander laughed. "You're part of the reason we needed her back."  
  
"What, to kill me?"  
  
"You're the only killer here," he contradicted. He shifted uncomfortably when Spike gave him a pointed look. "Okay, you and Spike," he corrected, rolling his eyes at Spike's mollified expression.  
  
"Both of who are making more sense than any of you right now," Giles put in disgustedly.  
  
The Scoobies gave him a collective wounded look, and then uncomfortably looked away from the anger in his eyes.  
  
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, turning on Faith.  
  
She shrugged as best she could in her bonds, raising her brows challengingly. "Would you have believed me?"  
  
The phone rang, loud and shrilly in the momentary silence.  
  
"Excuse me," Giles said, shouldering his way between the Scoobies. They parted like a wave and watched him go, standing about as if lost in the wake of his sudden departure.  
  
"Wow, he's really pissed," Xander remarked.  
  
"Yeah," Willow agreed disgustedly. "At least he's not making that clicky sound with his jaw."  
  
"No, he's doing that squinty Clint Eastwood thing with his eyes, which is even scarier," Anya said.  
  
Seconds ticked by, spanning into minutes, and everyone in the room began to grow restless. Very faint and far away they could hear the sound of Giles' deep voice as he spoke on the phone, but only the rhythm, not the words.   
  
"Who do you think he's talking to?" Willow asked with a frown, leaning toward the hallway.  
  
Anya spoke up in a low whisper. "I bet it's those AT&T people with a better long distance plan and a list of endless questions you have to answer so they can add your name to the service and trick you into thinking you're saving money." She shook her head gravely. "Why don't the forces of darkness ever get annoyed and set out to destroy _them_?"  
  
"You mean aside from the fact that the forces of evil are usually too busy killing, maiming and throwing apocalypses to care about lower rates?" Xander asked bemusedly.  
  
Faith listened to them, vaguely amused despite her situation. Only Tara and Spike stayed silent, both of them looking like they wished they were somewhere else, though admittedly, Tara looked far more uncomfortable. Spike only looked bored and annoyed.  
  
"Well, they're practically minions of hell, anyway," Anya went on, waving a hand. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised."  
  
"I wonder what kind of plans they offer on a Hellmouth?" Xander mused aloud. "The 'Fiends and Brethren' Program? 'Reach Out and Maim Someone'?"  
  
Willow rolled her eyes and cut them an annoyed look. "Shh! I'm trying to hear, you guys."  
  
"Fine. You don't have be so snippy about it," Anya said testily. "I was merely trying to lighten this tense situation with appropriate humor."  
  
Willow rolled her eyes again, muttering. "Well that'd be a first."  
  
"Hey!" Anya looked affronted, turning to Xander in indignation. "Xander, did you hear what she said?"  
  
"Yes, honey, and," he looked at Willow with mild annoyance, "hey!"  
  
Willow grimaced and then winced apologetically. "I-I'm sorry guys. I—I just… my heart's all thumpy and my tummy's all rumbly and twisted up—and I think I might be getting sweaty palms," she confessed with a disgusted grimace. "What's _that_ all about?"  
  
Xander brightened. "Oh, well that's… something I know absolutely nothing about," he finished abruptly, looking guilty.  
  
Willow gave him an odd look, and then tilted her head toward the hallway. "I think he's coming back," she whispered.  
  
Faith turned her head and saw the Scoobies scatter like rats as Giles came back to the room.  
  
"Could I, ah, see all of you out here, please?" he asked politely enough, if a bit distracted. Exchanging looks, they followed him, Spike rising like a recalcitrant child and sauntering behind, leaving just enough space to make clear he was following of his own accord. He gave Faith one last glance and then disappeared through the door, leaving her alone.  
  
_If they start having any more fun around here I'll slip right into a coma_, she thought cynically, then reconsidered. _Actually, the coma **was** more fun than this_.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"That was the Council," Giles said as they reached the living room of his apartment. Thoughtfully, he removed his glasses, putting the end of one arm between his teeth and swiveling the frames back and forth in a slow semi-circle.  
  
Long seconds passed and anticipation swelled amongst the faint rustle of clothing.   
  
"Giles, entire civilizations are rising and falling," Willow prodded.  
  
"Yes," he agreed distractedly, as if he hadn't really heard what she'd said. He hesitated a moment longer and then he looked at them all, the vague confusion back in his eyes again. "They said that Faith's parole is legitimate—"  
  
"Told you," the Slayer called triumphantly from the bedroom.  
  
All heads turned toward the hallway, and Giles cleared his throat, speaking in a much lower voice as he went on.  
  
"Ahem. As I was saying, according to her late Watcher's reports, she's been acclimating herself to the role of Slayer quite admirably. Very, ah, heroic."  
  
The Scoobies exchanged surprised and doubtful looks.  
  
"She brainwashed the Council!" Xander exclaimed.  
  
"I find it highly unlikely that she'd be able to do that from prison, Xander."  
  
"She _threatened_ the Council?" he asked with slightly less certainty.  
  
"She would be dead."  
  
"The Council's smoking the hemp instead of casting spells with it?" Willow offered, managing to look almost innocent.  
  
"Have you ruled out body-snatching?" Xander asked, more hopefully.  
  
"Hard as it may be for us to believe, it seems Faith's parole has been honestly earned."  
  
They took a moment to absorb that. Tara gave Willow a meaningful look and Willow glanced away quickly, looking guilty.  
  
"Well, okay, but, how were we supposed to know she went all… leaf turny?" she asked irritably.  
  
Giles put his glasses back on and pushed them up his nose. "I don't suppose we _were_ supposed to."  
  
Willow went still then, the irritation fading from her face, replaced by a sad frown as she realized what he meant. "Why didn't they tell you, Giles?"  
  
"They—they didn't want to upset me anymore than I already was. They thought it would be better for everyone if I didn't know until after I was through… grieving."  
  
"They were afraid you'd go off on a grieving, murderous revenge rage, right?" Xander asked, catching on.  
  
"Yes… that seems far more likely than their consideration of my feelings doesn't it?"  
  
"Smarmy bastards," Spike put in with a shake of his head.  
  
"And then they added insult to injury…" he trailed off as if it were difficult for him to continue.  
  
"Giles?" Willow asked. "What is it?"  
  
Giles seemed to stare right through them, eyes distant and vaguely hurt. "They've asked me to be Faith's Watcher."  
  
"They didn't!" Willow looked horrified. "How could they?"  
  
"Quite easily, it seems," Giles said, sounding almost regretful.  
  
"You told them you're not going to do it, right?"  
  
"Of course!" He looked offended that she'd thought otherwise, even for an instant. "I told them that it was reprehensible and, and u-unthinkable that they should even ask such a thing." Here he faltered, the bravado leaving him as he put his hands in his pockets and sighed. "Right before I told them I would do it."  
  
"You didn't?" Willow was aghast.  
  
"You caved?" Xander seemed sickly fascinated.  
  
"W-well, it seemed the s-smartest thing I could do, given the ah, situation."  
  
Xander turned to Willow with a satisfied look. "Body snatchers, I'm telling you."  
  
"Giles! How could you?"  
  
"She's not living with _us_!"  
  
"Have you lost your mind?"  
  
"What do we do now?"  
  
"Oh, this is going to be bloody brilliant."  
  
"Stop!" Giles raised his voice and his hand, seeming flustered. "Listen to me, all of you. The Council has made me aware that there is a 'situation' here in Sunnydale and it is imperative that we gain information so that we can properly combat it. Faith is the only one who has any knowledge of the events involved, and the Council is backing her as the main investigator of this clandestine plot."  
  
"In other words, they know bugger all and they're using the threat of this new big bad to make you do the job?"  
  
Giles sighed. "Yes, Spike, I'd say that's… annoyingly accurate. At any rate, we can ill afford to cut ourselves out of the loop if there is another major threat looming over Sunnydale, and Faith is our only way of connecting with the knowledge base."  
  
"So we do it without them," Willow said fervently. "We've done it before. I mean, when was the last time the Council was any big help to us? We've always done our own work, Giles, and we've always beaten the big bad."  
  
"You also had a Slayer on your side then," Spike reminded them.  
  
"Are you saying we _need_ her?"   
  
"Well, _yeah_," he said as if it should have been obvious. "Any of _you_ got the brawn to take on the nasties hand to hand?"  
  
"We've got you," Xander pointed out. "I can't believe I just said that."  
  
"Aw, Harris. I didn't know you cared," Spike mocked with a smirk. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his duster, drawing himself up and looking smug. "So, you want to make a vampire your champion, then?"  
  
"I trust you more than Faith." Xander started as if he'd been goosed, realizing what he'd just said, and looked around anxiously. "Who said that?"  
  
"You did, honey," Anya reassured him, patting him on the shoulder.  
  
"Well can somebody shut me up? Because I'm wigging myself out."  
  
"Moral dilemmas aside, Spike does have certain… limitations," Giles said.  
  
"Besides, evil, remember?" Spike asked, pointing to himself. "Face it—you all need a Slayer and you know it. Not because she's the only one who can get the job done, but because that's the way it's always been done. She's the hero of the story. The one with the supernatural scissors in your little Hellmouth barbershop quartet." He snorted. "Hell, people, I'm a vampire and I know that much."  
  
"Giles, tell me we can do it without her?" Willow looked to him with fast-fading hope.  
  
"I wish I could, but I suspect it would be difficult, at best, Willow. And likely, we would cross paths with Faith at every turn, regardless. It would be ridiculous if we _didn't_ put our resources together," he concluded, not all together happily.  
  
"But… well... we could…"  
  
"Don't even _think_ it," Giles warned darkly, his voice trembling with the effort of restraint. "We are _not_ going to attempt to resurrect Buffy, no matter how much we may wish she were still with us. And you and I are going to have a long, exhausting conversation about the principles, edicts and etiquette of spell casting after we're done here," he added severely.  
  
Willow's cheeks reddened and she stiffened, but she clenched her hands into fists at her sides and remained silent.  
  
Xander cleared his throat and stepped up slightly in front of Willow. "So, before you start sputtering in five syllable words no one can understand, what do we do now?"  
  
Giles' anger abated a little and he seemed startled as he considered, as if he hadn't thought it quite that far through yet. "Well, first I suppose I have to talk to Faith and tell her what's happened, see if she agrees."   
  
"She has a choice?" Xander seemed surprised.  
  
"Not—not as such, no. Still, one must show decorum when entering into such an arrangement. The desire for equal partnership must be reciprocated—"  
  
"Five syllable words!" Xander warned.  
  
"Right," he replied dryly, pursing his lips. "Well, since I'm lacking in illustrations to properly represent _that_ concept, allow me to move on to more familiar, researchable territory."   
  
"Good," Xander nodded, and then suddenly processed what Giles had just said. "Hey," he said, holding up one finger, pointing in Giles' direction accusingly. "I'm on to you, Mr. Big Wordy-McWord guy. That was an insult."  
  
Giles cut his eyes sharply away from Xander, doing the far more dignified, English version of the American eye roll. "Yes, very good, Xander. And after we master the rudimentary principles of sarcasm, we will move on to learning the finer points of devising a snappy rejoinder. Perhaps by the time you've mastered the art of verbal sparring while incorporating words of more than two syllables, the forces of darkness will have conquered the earth completely."  
  
Xander blinked. "Willow? Translation?"  
  
"Shh!" the redhead translated with a loud, though not all together unsympathetic, hiss.   
  
"Oh. Why didn't he just say _that_?"  
  
Silence fell over the group and Giles sighed, collecting his thoughts. "Yes, well, we do have _some_ information to point us along in our research, which should be our next step." He paused, as if allowing the dramatic tension to build. "Faith believes this big bad, whoever they may be, killed her Watcher in an attempt to gain a scroll she had procured."  
  
"Scroll?" Willow and Anya asked in unison, instantly interested.  
  
"Yes. It seems to be very important…"  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"This is worthless," the mistress said, holding up the scroll in one hand. With a smile that nearly split her face, she looked over her gathering of followers, and then slowly, deliberately, she crushed the parchment of the scroll.  
  
"This, which the Slayer sought to keep from us, this, for which we struggled and sacrificed so much, is meaningless." Making a show of it, she let the crumpled page fall to the floor without so much as a glance, and a vampire detached itself from the gathered throng, running low across the room like a ball boy to retrieve it before disappearing on the other side. Whispers broke out like wildfire and ran through the crowd.  
  
"But—but mistress," one of the vampires said. A fledgling, she marked him by his stupidity for questioning her. "We risked so much to gain it."  
  
"Yes," she agreed, feeling more amiable than usual, given her success last night. "But we no longer have need of it."  
  
The fledging fairly twisted himself into new shapes with his squirming need to question further, but he didn't quite dare.  
  
With a wolfish grin, she draped herself over her throne chair, lounging with purposeful indulgence. She ran a hand over her robes and slipped it into one pocket, drawing forth an iron key that glimmered dully in the flickering torchlight. Holding it up before her face, she considered it as one might consider a prized trophy. "This," she said emphatically. "This is all we need now."  
  
Every voice and body in the room stilled as she cleared her throat, and her voice took on a deeper, more reverent tone as she quoted from the scriptures. "'And the two who were joined in death shall be reunited in rebirth. And the blood shall flow, and the barriers between the worlds shall grow thin, and the divine one shall burst through onto the skin of this world, like a newborn child through the breach. And he shall lead—'"   
  
"Mistress," one of the vampires interrupted, raising his hand. "You skipped the part about the earth quaking and the skies raining blood," he pointed out politely.  
  
She stared at him in disbelief.  
  
"It's my favorite part," he explained with a shy, toothy grin.  
  
She rolled her eyes, exasperated, and made a mental note to start siring smarter minions. "'And the earth shall quake with his awakening, and the skies shall darken and the heavens shall weep blood, raining down ill omens upon the earth. And the divine one shall look upon it all and welcome its coming.'" Irritation fading, she gazed on the key with satisfied eyes. "'And he shall lead us to the glory of our promised land.'"  
  
She could almost hear the eyes of everyone in the room as they moved over the key, the large box in one corner to which it belonged, to the silver coffin, and finally back to her.  
  
She would have laid odds that not a vampire among them understood the import of what she had just said. But it didn't matter.  
  
Soon enough, the whole world would understand.  
  
  



	2. Mortal Ground 2 Chapter 2: Crossroads

CHAPTER 2: CROSSROADS  
  
I'm feeling weak and weary   
walking through this world alone   
Everything you say, every word of it,   
cuts me to the bone   
I've got something to say,   
but now I've got no where to turn   
It feels like I've been buried   
underneath the weight of the world   
  
I try to hold this under control   
They can't help me   
'Cause no one knows  
  
            ~Changes, 3 Doors Down  
  
______________________________________________  
  
"Are you sure you'll be all right?" Xander asked for possibly the hundredth time as he and Anya hovered anxiously in the doorway of Giles' apartment, seeming reluctant to leave.  
  
"Yes. Fine, I'm sure," Giles answered shortly. When they continued to stand there and stare at him expectantly, he gave a small sound of annoyance and went on. "She's not in any condition to do battle tonight. Besides, the Council has vouched for her, and Spike—"  
  
"We're taking the word of the Council and Spike here, Giles. Anything about that seem wrong to you?" Xander quipped drolly. "I mean, if anything happens to you, who'll look after the books… or," his eyes cut guiltily to the side as he attempted to sound casual, "your stamp collection, which happens to include the DC Comics special edition collection?"  
  
Giles sighed. "Xander, if she kills me, you can _have_ my stamp collection".  
  
Xander brightened and nodded with new resolve. "All right then, our work here is done," he said with finality, putting an arm around Anya's shoulders.  
  
"Does that mean I'll get the shop?" Anya asked, her entire face lighting up.  
  
"So good to know I'll be missed," he muttered, before adding an acidic, "Yes."  
  
"Yay!" Anya clapped her hands together, clasped them, and then smiling brightly, danced out the door like a little girl.  
  
"Be careful," Xander cautioned with one finger as he backed out the doorway. "Oh, and if she starts acting psychopathic, try playing Beethoven's Ninth."  
  
Before Giles could ask, Xander cut him off. "We'll call you later to make sure everything's okay." He held Giles' eyes for a moment in a serious way that was unusual for Xander, a way that let Giles know he'd only been kidding about the stamp collection and that he really _was_ worried about Giles' well being. He held the look long enough for that understanding to pass between them, then he gave a last nod and left.  
  
"Well, bye Giles!" Willow said with a little wave as she slipped out the door with Tara.  
  
"Hold it."  
  
Willow stopped and turned, her face crestfallen.  
  
"We need to speak. Privately. Now."  
  
"Someone's taking a visit to the woodshed," Spike observed with dry amusement. Before Willow could do more than glare at him, though, he went on. "Well, good luck then. I've done enough bloody good deeds for one day." He stopped, appearing to think that over with a frown. "Think I'll go kill a few demons and steal some blood to make myself feel better about it, too." He shrugged, and then brightened. "So long."  
  
Giles shut the door behind Spike as he left, and then leveled his eyes on Willow.  
  
"I'll just… wait… in…" Tara glanced around, realizing there was only one other unoccupied room. "…the bathroom," she finished slowly. She took one last look at the two of them, a stolen glance over her shoulder before she shut the door behind her, and was left with the impression of two gunslingers facing off at high noon.   
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"Who does he think he is, anyway?" Willow sputtered, clearly flustered. "Great big know-it-all, British…" she fumbled for a word, failed and added lamely, "Watcher Guy."  
  
Tara repressed a smile at her lover's ineffectual anger, tucking her honey blond hair behind one ear and ducking her head away to hide her amusement. It wasn't as if there was much that was funny about the situation, anyway, she thought, looking down at the road as they walked, side-by-side down the darkened Sunnydale streets toward home. But Willow was so cute when she got all flustered and passionately angry like this.  
  
"He's just worried about you," Tara offered quietly.  
  
"Well he shouldn't be!" Willow countered, seeming to grow even more agitated. "I'm-I'm practically a grown woman. I'm in college now. I… I have my own listing in the phone book!" she finished triumphantly, as if this were, at last, the final needed proof of being an adult.  
  
Willow brought her chin up as she made her final point, looking vindicated, and cute as she looked, Tara found that her smile had vanished.  
  
"Willow… he had a good reason to be worried." Willow stopped walking, turning to look at her in surprise. "What we did… that spell. It _was_ wrong." She looked at her with searching blue eyes. "You know that, right?"  
  
Willow seemed confused. "Tara—what?"  
  
"Having the power to do something doesn't automatically make it right to do it."  
  
"But you… we…" Willow shook her head as if to clear it. "What are you saying?"  
  
"I'm saying Giles was right. There was a line and we crossed it. We _all_ crossed it," she added, accepting her own responsibility.  
  
"You think I made a mistake," Willow realized with dawning indignation.  
  
"N-no—"  
  
"You're all against me!" she declared angrily.  
  
"I didn't say that!" Tara protested, her own anger beginning to rise. She stopped, took a breath, closed her eyes, opened them again. "I-I don't want to fight, okay? I just want you to understand that it _was_ a big deal." She reached out and laced her fingers through Willow's with an apologetic smile that pleaded for her lover's understanding.  
  
Willow looked at her uncertainly for a moment, seeming out of breath with anger, and then she nodded. "Okay."  
  
They walked the rest of the way home hand in hand in silence, Willow stealing sideways glances at her lover every now and again, thinking about what Tara had said…   
  
She still didn't get what the big deal was.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith was visibly surprised when Giles returned to the bedroom and began unlocking her manacles. She arched a dark brow at him as he worked, taking in his self-conscious, slightly guilty and very flustered expression.  
  
Seeming to sense her gaze, he cleared his throat to speak, but didn't meet her eyes. "The Council has vouched for your, ah, credentials," he began awkwardly. "I—I'm sorry you had to wake to this after the tragedy you've suffered, but you must understand—"  
  
"I get it, Giles," she said shortly, cutting him off as she sat up, briskly rubbing her wrists. "No harm, no foul. Besides, I've spent more time than that in shackles just for the fun of it," she confided with a predatory grin.  
  
There was no mistaking her meaning, not even for someone trying desperately to ignore it. "Ah…well, y-yes. I—I, ah…"  
  
"You're so cute when you get all flustered," Faith noted with appreciation, seeming determined to render him tongue-tied. And why not? Not only was it fun to watch him blush and stammer and get all indignant, but if she could keep him off-balance, maybe she could avoid all the really tough questions he was sure to ask until after she'd gotten a good night's sleep.  
  
Giles' mouth moved wordlessly for a few seconds more, and then he stopped shy of unlocking the final manacle around her ankle, setting the key down very deliberately. "Now listen here," he began, managing to sound flustered and annoyed all at once. "The Council has vouched for you, but that does not wipe the slate clean, as it were. You are still on probation. Given the death of your assigned Watcher, they have asked that I step in to serve as a replacement, which means that this sort of inappropriate behavior is—"  
  
Oh, this _was_ fun. She couldn't remember the last time someone had honestly played hard to get, and she was beginning to lose the point of her avoidance in the thrill of the game. "So it's like that, is it?" she asked, her voice sly as she slid her body down the bed toward him. "You want to be the big, tough daddy-figure? I can play along with that." She gave him a dark, seductive smile resembled nothing so much as a shark, and reached out toward him with one hand.  
  
He grabbed her wrist before she ever touched him, eyes hard and unforgiving.  
  
"Oooo," she breathed, seeming giddy. "I like it when—" she broke off, gasping slightly as he tightened his grip on her wrist, his fingers hitting a cluster of nerves that sent pain shooting through her fingers and up her arm, despite her Slayer toughness. Instantly the seductive expression dropped from her face and she looked down at her wrist with open admiration. "Wow. Go Giles."  
  
"Let's set this straight here and now," he said, his voice even and taut. "If we are going to work together, there will be no playing of games. We will conduct ourselves with complete professionalism, adhering to the code of conduct set in place by the Council centuries ago. Any deviation from this code will result in my reporting your utter disregard of morality to the Council." The look in his eyes made it apparent that he knew they were both aware of what that meant. "Are we clear?"  
  
"Damn. So no dog and pony show?" Her voice was somehow fretful and sarcastic at the same time.  
  
"Dog and pony—?"  he began, confusion and mild disgust clouding his eyes, then cut himself off with a very firm, "No."  
  
She sighed with mock regret. "Oh well. Can't blame a girl for trying," she added with a shrug. She wasn't really surprised; she'd pretty much expected this kind of reaction. And, okay, maybe she _had_ overdone it a little… but he _was_ awfully cute for an older guy, and that kind of distraction could have meant skipping the conversation they were about to have.  
  
He held her eyes intently a moment more, then dropped her hand.   
  
"Faith… I know this is not the most auspicious of beginnings…" he trailed off, looking uncertain, and something in the sadness of his voice caught her.  
  
He sounded so torn, looked so vulnerable. For a moment, clear blue eyes locked on hers, the barriers within wavering uncertainly, and between the cracks in the invisible walls the world had built there, she saw through into his soul. For just that moment, she saw him, really _saw_ him, and she found an image of memory there, remembering a sunlit afternoon in the high school library when he had looked at her much the same way he was looking at her now. Golden light and shadows had played over his handsome face as he talked, and he had paused, catching his glasses thoughtfully between his teeth, blue eyes open as they were to her now, their gaze settling upon her, looking at her, looking _into_ her, like she was _someone_. Like she mattered. As if he were worried for her, as if he cared what happened to her. As if, somehow, he had known the dark path she was traveling down and feared for her very soul. And for a moment she had penetrated the mist of her own confusion and unconscious self-absorption, had become _aware_ of him, and she had known that he _saw_ her. That she was real to him. She had always felt like a ghost among the others, intangible, unimportant, but in that moment, she had seen how things might have been. How things _could_ have been, maybe, if she had chosen a different path.  
  
She could see he was reluctant to accept this responsibility as her Watcher, and yet he refused to shrink from it, bearing it with the same pride and nobility he bore everything else. He might look and act like a bumbling librarian lost in the world, but there was strength in Giles that ran deep and strong, like a building's steel structure beneath the raiment of glass.   
  
The thought occurred to her suddenly that he had no reason to be so kind now, after all that she had done to them… and yet, he, of all the Scoobies, had always been the least vengeful, the least condemning of her behavior. He was a good man, a true hero, and he lacked the self-righteousness Buffy had possessed that always grated on Faith's nerves. He had done nothing to deserve her toying with him. She sat and absorbed the scope of his character in that split-second, and for just a moment, she was shamed by her own behavior. "Yeah." She glanced away and gave an uncomfortable little shrug. "But it's cool. I was just… you know, yanking your chain a little."   
  
Not quite able to keep herself from looking at him, she met his eyes again, and for a moment, the pretense between them completely fell away, and they shared look she couldn't quite put a name to. Understanding, maybe.  
  
He gave her a faint smile and then took the key back in hand, dutifully returning to fishing the lock. It clicked and tumbled, then with a snap, the final manacle fell open and she was free.   
  
He paused, eyes scrutinizing as he looked at her, as if waiting to see what she would do now that she could move. A thousand possibilities raced through her mind, unbidden, but she ignored them and him, turning her attention to rubbing her tingling ankles. It was a deliberate movement, almost blatant; her way of making it known that she had no ill intentions.  
  
She held the moment long enough to make it understood, and then let it pass, feeling somehow bare, eager to re-clothe her suddenly naked psyche with the familiar comfort of banter. "So," she cleared her throat and gauged her tone, making it light, keeping it distanced, and injecting casual sarcasm for good measure. "How'd they con you into being my Watcher?" Yeah, this was much better. She could feel the usual reflexes kicking in and taking over, carrying her words forward without any thought or assistance. "I mean the life expectancy on _my_ Watchers is about the same as a gallon of milk. Plus, with the mortal enemies thing, I'm thinking: not rating very high on your "Top 10 Things To Do" list."  
  
He came to his feet and slipped the key into his pocket, considering, and she felt the air between them change, felt that brief moment of understanding each other slide away to be replaced by the brisk air of business. "Well, they have asked me to take the position on a temporary basis." Gathering his thoughts, he walked to the dresser, leaned his lower back against its edge and folded his arms over his chest. "It would appear that your Ms. Hall came very highly recommended from one of the Council's most advanced academic branches in Europe, and was one of the few qualified Watchers to survive a rash of vampire attacks there. All other candidates with the required knowledge and experience are currently assigned to other locations and tasks. It will take time for them to recall someone to replace her."  
  
She studied him for a moment, listening to the deliberately academic, bright tones he used while describing all of this, plying them like a magician, trying to distract her with the flourish and flash of knowledge, completely avoiding the question. "They made you do it, didn't they?" Her voice was sharp, razor edged with knowing and dark with amusement.  
  
"N-no, o-of course not. I… had a… choice." When Faith smirked at him, he went on almost indignantly. "It so happens that I have a duty to perform, just as you do, _and_ I have a vested interest in keeping Sunnydale in one piece. In this instance, that means including you as part of the group." He sighed when her expression didn't change, and finally relented. "Given the circumstances, yes, my hand was somewhat forced."   
  
"I knew it," she gloated.  
  
"As was yours," he added meaningfully. "How do you feel about that?"  
  
How did she _feel_? Oh no, she was _so_ not going to have therapy time right now, not while her ribs were on fire and the image of her dead Watcher was still so fresh in her sleep-deprived, pain-maddened, close-to-hallucinating brain. She was about two steps from the edge of emotional breakdown, and she wasn't budging another step. "Wow, is the psych session part of the Watcher package deal or is that extra?" she asked with affected sincerity.  
  
"Your attitude is hardly becoming of—" He caught himself, took a breath. "Fine. Perhaps we should put all of our cards on the table, as it were. If we're going to work together—"  
  
"Then we have to trust each other, blah blah blah, truth, justice, mind-numbing boredom." He was starting to sound dangerously like an authority figure again, and she rolled her eyes, capturing the rhythm of her routine. "I got the speech from Angel enough that I got it memorized."  
  
"Yes, I imagine you did," he commented quietly, regarding her with open curiosity. "Am I to understand, then, that you do not require further repetition?"  
  
"Nope. You and me work together to fight off this big bad until the Council comes up with a replacement, they switch you out for the newer model, and you can go back to your exciting life of tea and crumpets. Or possibly retire," she added speculatively.  
  
He looked mildly outraged; an expression that perhaps only the truly British can manage. "I'll have you know that I am… _years_ away from the proper age of retirement."  
  
"You know," she said, her eyes thoughtful as they rested on him. "I figured you'd be gone by now. Especially since Willow and the gang don't seem to be taking your advice anymore." Her voice held its usual edge of innate challenge, but more strongly it reflected genuine curiosity and, perhaps, even the faintest trace of compassion.  
  
It was that trace that caused him to avert his eyes and answer honestly. "Yes. Well. Things—things have been difficult, since…" he trailed off, not meeting her eyes, and she could tell by the shadows she saw in his blue irises before he looked away that he was thinking of Buffy.  
  
She nodded. "Yeah. My life hasn't exactly been coming up roses since then, either."  
  
He made a small motion with one hand as he shrugged, as if to say he expected nothing else.  "Doing the right thing isn't always the most rewarding."  
  
"Yeah," she answered dryly. "I got a lot of _that_ from Angel, too. I don't think this is gonna be too different of a partnership." She didn't look thrilled by the prospect.  
  
"Well, perhaps this arrangement will spell a change of luck for us all," he offered with quiet optimism.  
  
They stared at each other for a long moment in silence, and then Faith burst into laughter.  
  
"Oh yeah," she cackled with wry humor. "Like _that's_ ever gonna happen."  
  
After a startled moment, Giles more modestly joined in her mirth. The tension between them lessened just a bit as their laughter trailed off, and he relaxed his posture, settling more comfortably against the dresser. In the brief silence that followed, he studied her, eyeing her almost kindly, as if he had gained some sort of insight into her mercurial moods.  
  
"I imagine this is somewhat difficult for you."  
  
"Understatement much?" Her voice oozed sarcasm, but he was left with the impression that it was not directed at him.  
  
"It is… very strange…"  
  
"Like the Twilight Zone on a bad acid trip," she agreed.  
  
"And sudden," he added with a solemn nod. "Do you think you'll…"  
  
"Go homicidal again and try to kill you all?" she asked with a mocking smile. She appeared to consider, then shrugged. "Seems kinda passé, don't ya think?"  
  
"I was going to say 'be all right with the arrangement'?"  
  
"Oh, that. Huh." She looked up at him curiously from behind veiled eyes. "What about you? You okay with that?" She raised a dark brow at him.  
  
"I… well…" he faltered for a moment. "I suppose I'm not really certain, as yet," he finished, sounding quietly surprised, as if he'd only just discovered this fact himself.  
  
"I'm right there with you, G. Guess we'll see how it works out, huh?"  
  
He considered her, blue eyes thoughtful. "You really intend to stay and work with us?"  
  
"What?" She seemed almost offended, her voice rising in challenge. "You think I'm gonna take off? With the bastards that did this to me and Ms. H still running loose? I'm not setting one foot outside good old Sunny D 'til I dust every last one of those worthless flatliners."  
  
"Were you… close with her?" he asked, genuinely curious.  
  
For the first time, she dropped her eyes uncertainly, looking down at the patchwork colors of the quilt on his bed as she debated her answer. "We… didn't get along, half the time, but she was… she was my Watcher. She tried to do right by me." She raised her eyes to look at him again, and this time they burned with the fire of determination. "She didn't deserve what she got."  
  
He nodded his understanding. He and Buffy hadn't gotten along splendidly well in the beginning, either; they'd clashed in beliefs, often. Still, if anything had happened to her in those early months of being partnered, he would have felt the exact same way as Faith.   
  
"If that means being a Scooby for a while, then rev up the Mystery Machine," she finished with a shrug.  
  
She seemed resolved, and yet… "You seem very…calm about this," he commented, his voice delicately probing.  
  
She didn't _feel_ calm. In fact, she felt like she was cornered by the biggest, nastiest most bad-assed demon she'd ever fought against—without a weapon or even a stitch of clothing and both arms broken. Her heart thundered in her chest, her palms were slick with sweat and she could feel her stomach trying to crawl out through her throat. On the outside though, she was completely cool and collected, clear-headed. She had a feeling the only keeping her together right now was the speed at which these life-changing events kept happening; she hadn't had a chance to stop and think about any of it yet. The last thing she wanted was to be here with Giles right now, trying to psychoanalyze herself. Her reactions and replies were automatic, instinctive at this point. It was like fighting; block, parry, thrust. As long as she was fighting, she could keep going. If she stopped for more than a second to think about how she _felt_… she'd probably fall apart, and there was no way in hell she was going to do that here and now, in front of Giles.  
  
"Yeah, you know me," she said with a shrug, her voice about ten thousand times more casual than she felt. _Wow, did you hear that, self? If this Slayer gig doesn't work out, we may have a career in acting to fall back on._ She choked back a giggle that bubbled up in her throat and tried to escape with her stomach. God, she was tired, wrung out, and loopy from pain. She was getting punchy, losing her grip on things. She couldn't afford to do that.  
  
He looked at her, eyes intense and very serious as he explained. "Yes, that's exactly why I'm curious about your attitude."  
  
She cut him an annoyed glance. "What do you want from me? Should I get on me knees and cry and beg forgiveness and thank God that the Scoobies are saints enough to take me in? Let's face facts: we're stuck with each other, we wouldn't be if we had any other choice and we might as well make the best of it." Her voice wavered only slightly. There was more to it all than just that, of course, but be damned if she was going to launch into the "Redemption Song" so he could fall down laughing at her. No way he'd buy that bullshit. Hell, she didn't know if _she_ bought it.  
  
He thought about that for a moment, wondering at the slight hint of a question in her voice, almost as if she _wanted_ him to contradict her statement. Dismissing the errant thought as a mistake, he nodded as if in agreement with himself, and finding nothing more to say about it, changed the subject to more practical matters. "Do you, ah, have somewhere you can stay?"  
  
The reminder of not having a home, of everything that had happened jolted her, but she kept control of herself, pushed aside her emotions and tried to focus on the question. There was something strange about it... something that didn't quite make sense. Then she realized. "Wait… you mean the Council's not going to keep me under lock and key?" she asked in disbelief.  
  
"Well, they ah, received favorable reports from your Watcher. I suppose they feel you've proven yourself well enough to be somewhat on your own. As long as you maintain constant contact," he added hastily, his posture seeming to crimp with discomfort… or was it guilt?  
  
_Yeah, and you probably wigged out all over them when they said I should stay with you, didn't you? _she thought wryly. "Sure. Angel's place is empty, has everything I need."  
  
"Very good."  
  
She couldn't help but notice that he looked slightly relieved, and wondered why it stung. She tucked that feeling away with all the others though, and she did it with the precision and practiced ease of a stripper tucking a bill into her top, not letting any emotion show on her face. What the hell did she expect, anyway? Her own room? Milk and cookies after a good slay?  
  
"Yeah. Guess I should get gone, then, huh?" she asked abruptly, rising to her feet. Her ribs exploded with nearly unbearable pain and the world wavered red before her eyes, the room and its sparse furnishings turning dangerously gray before regaining their normal spectrum of colors.  
  
Giles seemed agitated by her question, confused and uncertain. "I—I thought you'd stay through the night, at least until your injuries have a chance to—"  
  
"I'm fine." She made a show of walking, making a supreme effort not to grimace in pain. "See?"  
  
"Yes, of course." He sounded perfectly reasonable, but he looked doubtful of her assessment. "But what if you encounter some sort of monster along your way?"  
  
"I'll deal," she said hitching up her shoulders. "Won't be the first time I've fought with a few mending ribs."  
  
"Well…" he seemed uncertain about how to pursue the subject. He clearly didn't want her walking around injured, but he didn't seem convinced of his own authority over her as yet. He wasn't quite willing to order her around, and for that she was grateful.  
  
"I've been on my own since I was fourteen, G. I'll handle it."  
  
He hesitated, then finally nodded. "Rest today then, and tomorrow we'll meet at the Magic Box to get started on research. If you think you'll be well enough?" he added belatedly.  
  
"Right." She nodded, shifting her weight uncomfortably back and forth between her feet. "So, are we five by five here?"  
  
"If that means 'do we understand each other and can you leave now?', then yes."  
  
She started for the door.  
  
"Oh, and Faith." She paused, her expression turning curious as she saw the smirk that tugged at one corner of his mouth.   
  
"If you call me 'G' again, I'll let Willow update your progress reports."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
It had been a truly stupid move to chance getting caught by some nasty with her ribs in this condition. Wincing, Faith gingerly touched her side, hoping to ease the pain a little, and instead felt fire ignite and bloom beneath her fingers. She hissed and shook her head, berating herself for her stupid pride, and plodded on toward the mansion.  
  
She probably should have stayed, curled up on Giles' wool-blanketed couch among the dark yellows and warm browns and enjoyed the slightly musty scent of paper that filled his apartment, but everything was just too… surreal right now. Bizarre didn't even begin to cover it. Teaming up with the Scoobies? Giles as her Watcher? The Council letting her walk somewhat free? None of it made any sense at all. She supposed she could chalk it all up to circumstance, but it was just so _freaky_. She was going to be working alongside people whom she'd previously attempted to kill, none of whom had as yet forgiven her and weren't ever likely to. It seemed impossible for her to even begin untangling how it all made her feel.  
  
She'd known before he'd come back into the room that he'd been coerced into being her Watcher—they really did forget that Slayers had better hearing than other humans. Still, she'd been surprised when he'd released her right away. It had occurred to her then that she could refuse his status as Watcher and take off… but not only would that mean having the Council on her ass, it would also mean leaving Sunnydale for good, and there was no way in hell she was going anywhere until she got her hands on the things that had killed Ms. H. If that meant teaming with the Scoobies and being Giles' pet Slayer, then she could play along. But then he'd taken off the chains and gotten all sympathetic and apologetic, and she'd realized that maybe it wouldn't be _so_ bad. She'd been slightly disappointed when he'd shut down her advances. She hadn't really expected him to take her up on her offer, but it might have been…  
  
Whatever.  She'd been running for about a week straight, and her brain was as tired as her feet.  She knew that when she woke up tomorrow afternoon, there would be pain, regret, sorrow and loss waiting to hit her like a freight train, and probably, when she fell asleep tonight, her dreams would run nightmare marathons of her final battle through the fire. But for now, the shock and the rapidity of events kept it all blissfully at bay. All she cared about right now was sleep, somewhere quiet, safe and warm.  
  
Angel's mansion felt like a tomb; deserted, silent and ancient. It was all too easy to imagine ghosts walking those darkened halls, specters grown tired of their catacomb graves restlessly roaming the timeworn stone. Cold air permeated the hallways and clung to the corners with the whispering fingertips of the coming fall. Momentarily, she debated building a fire, then shrugged, went through the curtain and fell into bed fully dressed, thinking two out of three wasn't bad.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Giles sat in his apartment, staring distantly into a glass of scotch for a long time after she left. _Scotch, depression, and melancholy, contemplative thought_—his constant companions for longer than he cared to remember. There was a song in there somewhere, he mused with a derisive smile, probably some hideous, twangy, country composition that would cause him to shudder uncontrollably upon hearing it.  
  
He couldn't really blame the others for wondering if he'd lost his mind—he half wondered the same thing, himself.   
  
On the outside it seemed simple, almost routine. He sifted through the papers spread out over the table with one hand, catching a headline here, a picture there. It was all here, Faith's past, laid out in neat little blocks of text and illustrated with a spectrum of photographs: police black and white, Kodak family color, the faded sepia of Instamatic cameras. The files read like some tragic movie story, showcasing all the usual suspects in such a dramatically punctuated life: abusive childhood, abusive boyfriends, deviant behavior, criminal behavior, misdemeanors and arrests, correctional facilities. A separate folder began chronicling her Slayer training, complete with Watcher reports and psychological profiles, none of which had saved her from a permanent criminal record cataloguing manslaughter, murder, and attempted manslaughter, culminating in prison records.  
  
From that point though, things showed signs of drastic and—for someone with Faith's profile—unusual improvement. She'd spent her time in prison with good reports, had received good reports from her Watcher since being released, and from what he'd seen, she certainly seemed genuine enough in wanting to follow her mission, even if she was conversationally abrasive. He had witnessed firsthand the conflicting emotions in her as she'd told the story of what had happened to her Watcher, and as she'd relived the memory of her villainous past. He still didn't trust her, but her current record pointed to the rocky road of redemption, and he was willing to give her a chance.  
  
_"You believe in second chances, Ripper?"_ Ethan's voice.  
  
_"Absolutely." _The memory of his own voice echoed back to him.  
  
Everyone deserved a second chance—he, himself, was proof enough of that. But for him, for all of them, it wasn't just a question of taking Faith in… it was a question of letting Buffy go. Buffy… his surrogate daughter, child of his heart who was bound to him by more than blood, the only child he would ever have. Buffy would have scoffed at his compassion for Faith. But Buffy was gone. And that was rather the point, wasn't it?   
  
He'd been lost since she'd died, stumbling about in a haze of mind-numbing grief, no longer feeling he had a purpose or a home; a graying man in a graying world that suddenly sensed the steps of the reaper close at his own heels. He'd spent far too long pondering the meaning and unfairness of life, the passion that fueled his sorrow and anger burned down to ash long ago. Depression without focus or passion to drive it quickly turned to apathy, and he found himself with an empty space where once his heart had burned fiercely bright with the light and hope of heroes. That was gone now, his heart cracked and charred, its cavity hollowed out as if she had clawed her way from it like a womb. She had been birthed from it and taken all meaning with her when she had gone. He was empty now, a blank canvas in desperate need of paint, a man who has woken from youth to find himself in the clutches of a mid-life crisis. No longer Watcher, no longer father, a nothing man in a nothing place, barely clinging to the skin of the world by his fingernails.  
  
He'd considered returning to England, of course, to the clean, narrow streets of his home city, to the buildings dressed in their drab browns, grays and greens, skyline set against the familiar gray backdrop of overcast sky… but he'd kept finding reasons to delay. There was nothing on the other side of the ocean for him; there was nothing for him here. He loved Willow and the others well enough, but they couldn't provide him with what he was lacking. They could not make whole what had been destroyed. He wasn't quite sure that _anything_ could. And then, _this_…  
  
His first impulse had been to laugh in the Council's face when they'd asked him to be Faith's Watcher. In point of fact, he had. And then they'd begun making a bizarre kind of sense that he couldn't argue with, and he'd begun to realize that this was his chance, a sense of purpose fairly being dropped in his lap. He could be someone again, could be what he had been trained all his life to be… or he could go home and fade into obscurity, living out his days in a flat in a country that seemed almost as foreign to him now as America had when he'd first come here. He loved England, oh yes, and he belonged there, without a doubt… but he wondered if it would ever feel like home again after Sunnydale.  
  
Again, on the outside, it seemed very simple. He should stay and do the job that he had been trained to do. It was ingrained in him; it was the essence of who he was. Olivia had liked to joke that even naked he always smelled faintly of tweed and paper and all things right and proper. And the part of him that was completely Watcher, completely detached and analytical, very easily understood the logic of taking up his natural role again. In fact, that part of him understood a great deal more than that.  
  
His emotional mind screamed that this was madness, but his logical mind somehow found it right that they'd been brought together in the wake of Buffy's death: Slayer, Watcher and Scoobies. It was a feeling that was hard to define, but he felt it nonetheless, like a vague tickling in the back of his mind, a forgotten word perched on the tip of his tongue. There was a sort of terrible symmetry to the situation, a feeling of everything coming full circle. There was no other group in the world as trained in fighting evil as they were. They were better together than they would ever be apart. Their power would be all the stronger for their joining together, and, to a lesser degree of importance, they could keep an eye on Faith, perhaps even guide her.  
  
Yes. That was the logic of it: It was somehow _right_ that another Slayer should come to them, and it was their duty to fight at her side and instruct her—no matter how deep their love of the first. It was putting that logic into action that was difficult. It felt like blasphemy, letting go of Buffy. These last few months he had held her memory to him, basking in it like the light of the sun. But the sun that gave him life had now begun to poison him, and he had lived in his memory too long, a tiny part of him wrapped safe in the cocoon of his daydreams and longings while the rest of him wasted and withered away. God, nothing would ever replace Buffy; he loved her as he had never loved anyone, with the purity and adoration he imagined all parents must inherently feel, love like pure golden light, precious and vital—but he knew that the time was soon coming when he would have to let her go, or follow in her into death.  
  
And those were his choices, laid bare. He could go on living, already a dead man walking, or follow behind her and sink willingly into the arms of oblivion, or he could take up a new purpose and resign himself to her loss. He had choices, and yet he felt cheated, like the young man forced to choose between the lady and the tiger.  
  
_"You're certain the spell didn't work?"  
  
_"No. Nothing, Giles. We were there for a few minutes before the vampires came and just… nothing."  
  
It was just as well that it hadn't worked, but he'd had a moment of hopefulness, of wishing. He would never have dared try what Willow had, but to have Buffy back…  
  
He downed his drink and killed the thought, wincing a little as he swallowed. There was no point in dwelling on what could have been. The time was coming to leave behind the trappings of sorrow, memories and ghosts tucked away in shiny boxes, to be admired again someday in the light of better times. The future was opening eagerly, devouring him in the familiar, ever-uncertain vortex that promised nothing and gave everything without consideration for good or ill.  
  
The future. Faith.  
  
He shook his head, heaved a sigh, and rose to pour himself another drink.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Tenth pushed open the door to the tiny Sunnydale motel room and was greeted by the faint smell of years-old grime and mildew; old, pale scents that were nearly lost beneath the fresh, fatty grease aroma that permeated the room, reeking of soy burgers and fried potatoes. Both scents were muted beneath a layer of sickly lemon-freshness that was meant to be perky but was instead only cloying, drawing even more attention to the cheap, unsavory atmosphere of the room. Used to it by now, Tenth paid little attention to the tackiness and disrepair of his surroundings, eyes skimming over the dull, gray-green walls and threadbare carpet with a quick, cursory glance that ascertained only the security of his surroundings.  
  
Fox sat in the center of the room, completely unperturbed by Tenth's entrance, hunched over his laptop amidst a drift of fast food wrappers and empty Mountain Dew bottles like some kind of Geek God, the soft glow of the electronic screen illuminating his intense young face. Smirking, Tenth slammed the door behind him, the whole room seeming to rattle on its foundation. If anything, Fox's look of concentration increased, and the tapping of his fingers against the keyboard never paused.  
  
"That how you guard the place?" Tenth asked with gruff humor. "I could have been anybody."  
  
"I knew it was you," Fox replied, still not looking up. "I know your movements."  
  
Tenth looked at the young, freckled face and bit back a retort. Sometimes he wished he had chosen an older partner, someone not just escaping the lankiness of their teen years, trails of acne just fading from their cheeks; someone who didn't make him feel like he was on his way to becoming archaic and geriatric in the tender years of his late twenties. But there was no one among the Order who showed as much promise and talent as Fox.  
  
"Anything?" he asked, glancing at the laptop.  
  
"Nothing yet," the boy replied, biting down on his lower lip and finally looking up at Tenth. "You know, for a town with so much supernatural activity, they don't log a lot of unusual events."  
  
He hesitated a moment and ran a hand over his hair, not wanting to ask, but knowing it needed to be brought up. "How about the obits? Turn up anything there?"  
  
"I... checked. Nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe she's still operating?" Fox asked, his hazel eyes upturned hopefully. "Undercover?"  
  
Tenth considered the question a moment then shook his head. "If she is, she's deep enough under that I can't find a trace of her. I tracked her to the hotel room she was staying at… looks like she hasn't been there in days, at least."  
  
"Maybe someone caught on and she couldn't go back."  
  
"Maybe…" He looked at the young face, so soft and hopeful in the glow of the laptop screen, wishing he could make this easier for the kid, somehow. He knew the boy had a thing for Blackwell. Hell, they all did. But in their line of work they couldn't afford foster false hope or leave loose ends; either of those things could get them hurt, or worse, get them dead.   
  
He walked over and laid a commiserating hand on Fox's shoulder, hoping to soften the blow a little. "Still, I think we should start checking the police and hospital records. County Coroner, too."  
  
Tenth could feel the boy tense beneath the thin cover of his sweaty tee shirt. For a moment, Fox looked as if he might say something, pink lips that just barely escaped being freckled trembling uncertainly, and then he swallowed instead, nodding.  
  
"For what it's worth, I hope we don't find anything," Tenth offered gently.  
  
It was true. But he could tell by the way the boy went back to work without another word that they both knew hope and reality were two trains that seldom met.  
  



	3. Mortal Ground 2 Chapter 3: Plasticity

CHAPTER 3: PLASTICITY  
  
A dewdrop can exalt us like the music of the sun  
And take away the plain in which we move  
And choose the course you're running  
  
Down at the edge, round by the corner  
Not right away, not right away  
Close to the edge, down by a river  
Not right away, not right away  
  
Crossed the line around the changes of the summer  
Reaching out to call the color of the sky  
Passed around a moment clothed in mornings faster than we see  
Getting over all the time I had to worry  
Leaving all the changes far from far behind  
We relieve the tension only to find out the master's name  
  
            ~Closer To The Edge I (The Solid Time Of Change), Yes  
______________________________________________  
  
Faith woke with the fleeting impression that she'd been dreaming something important. An odd feeling of deja-vu swept through her like a dark current, carrying with it scattered images of sand and white-hot sun that broke apart meaninglessly in the eddy's and swirls of her waking thoughts. A word echoed in her mind, a memory that she couldn't quite grasp _(danna? danoa?)_ and fluttered there, hovering on the verge of knowing before it slipped her thoughts like quicksilver, a firefly vanishing into the dark wells of her mind where she couldn't follow.  
  
She sat up quickly, jolted awake, inexplicably panicked as the word (_thought? dream?) slipped away through the cracks of her memory, and for a moment there was only the sound of her heavy breathing as she struggled to remember—then pain rushed up to meet her mind, washing over her in searing waves that radiated from her battered side, and all rational thought ceased. She rode out the worst of the wave, teeth clenched in gridlock, fine sweat on her brow, and when it passed she cautiously relaxed, the dull ache that remained warning her not to heave the sigh of relief that wanted to escape. How many days had it been? Two? Three? It seemed like eternity. Groaning, she turned, slowly, carefully, trying to keep her weight off her injured side. She'd had broken ribs before, plenty of them, in fact, but it wasn't just the bones that were complaining; her lung felt like it had been skewered with a hot poker. Which was, actually, pretty accurate, if you substituted bone for hot poker.  
  
She forced herself up off the bed, adjusting to the pain—which did seem slightly less today—and was immediately struck by the freight train of memory.  
  
_Angel, so sad, looking like a lost little boy in the night as he left her…  
_  
_The Scoobies in a circle, Willow's hair standing on end as their bodies crackled with electricity and power…  
  
The house in burning ruin, beset upon by vampires… the smashing of her ribs… her last crawl through the wreckage… her Watcher's body, twisted and beheaded on the sizzling ground…  
  
Giles' face, so solemn and sad…_  
  
No. She wasn't going to do this. Not now. Not ever, if she could avoid it.  
  
She managed to distract herself with an exercise in pain as she changed her clothes, grateful that she'd thought to leave a few extras at Angel's, and then dragged herself to the window, pulling back the thick velvet drapery to look outside.  
  
It was gorgeous, a true Southern California day. Bright and sunny, cheerful light filtering through the trees, illuminating the earth in a golden glow so bright that it lent a dreamlike quality to landscape it caressed. The skies were blue and clear, like the depths of the Caribbean, and not a single wisp of cloud marred their beauty. It was the kind of day that people moved to California to experience. The kind of day where you looked around, breathed deep, and thought about how lucky you were just to be alive.  
  
"Yeah… lucky me," she muttered, and let the curtain fall back into place.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
She was about a block from the Magic Box when the panic began to set in.  
  
_Shit. How do I do this? How am I supposed to act? Am I supposed to bring anything?_ She stopped in mid-stride, uncertain, and looked back and forth between hands that hung blameless, empty at her sides. She flexed them experimentally; as if she expected them to reveal some sort of wisdom to her, and when they remained silent and empty, sullen as sulking children, her gaze moved on to eye her outfit up and down, critically. Encased in skin-tight, black jeans that hugged the contours of her body like a new lover, and a too-tiny black tee that hiked up over her navel with the words "super tasty" written across her breasts in small, white print, she looked exactly like she always did. Yet suddenly, the clothes she had felt completely at ease in a moment before now left her feeling oddly naked, and she shrunk deeper within the shelter of her favorite battered black jean jacket, as if she hoped it would protect her.  
  
_This is fucking ridiculous_, she thought, disgusted with herself. She forced herself to straighten, flexed her hands inside the almost too-long cuffs of her jacket, and rotated her shoulders, feeling her neck muscles creak with knotted tension. She wished she had a weapon, something to grip in her hand and center her focus, a talisman to hold up before the Scoobies and fend off the nervous twitching of her fingers. Something…  
  
Unbidden, her mind coughed up a memory that left behind the faint, bitter aftertaste of melancholy. Doughnuts. They'd always eaten doughnuts when they were researching. Crème? No… Jelly? Yes, jelly.  
  
Her mind seized on the idea and she'd turned, getting about halfway back up the street in the direction of the bakery when she stopped cold, frantically digging through her various pockets in search of money. A quick search turned up several tufts of lint, assorted gum wrappers and a bright, shiny quarter that proclaimed New York as the "gateway to freedom". She pressed the quarter between her lips, tasting acrid metal, and dug deeper in her pockets, wondering if she'd had any money on her when she'd left the house the other night. Shit. She froze in mid grope as a sudden, obvious thought occurred to her. Where was she going to get _more_ money?  
  
And then, pushed to the brink by the extreme events of the last few days, the absurdity of it all crashed down on her in an all-consuming wave. Hysterical laughter bubbled up from her chest in harsh gasps, and she bent nearly double with the force of it, oblivious to both the pain in her ribs and the stares of people on the street.  
  
Christ. Here she was, injured, pretty much abandoned and homeless, nearly penniless with no food, her Watcher dead and now forced to side with people who'd in all likelihood rather see her dead than spend another moment in her presence—and she was worried about whether she had enough money to buy them _doughnuts_? She _really_ needed to get her priorities in order. Unable to help it, she pushed her forehead against a lamppost, leaning on it for support, closing her eyes as her peals of laughter overwhelmed her.  
  
At last her stream of giggles slowly bubbled to a halt and she sobered, like champagne going flat. She gave a few last hitching breaths, expelling her ill humor and regaining her equilibrium, and wiped at her eyes, shaking her head at her own stupidity.  
  
_Doughnuts. Hah._  
  
She thought maybe her sanity was just a little frayed.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
A short while later she stood nervously outside the door of the Magic Box, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, the box of doughnuts feeling strange in her hands.  
  
_I can't do this. I can't go in there._  
  
It was so ridiculous that she thought she might start laughing again. Slayer for almost three years running, she'd seen a host of truly horrifying creatures, faced the opening of the Hellmouth and the end of the world, had more dead vampires and demons under her belt than she could even count, and here she was, terrified of opening a door with only normal humans behind it. Okay, so they weren't all exactly normal, but probably none of them were going to attack her when she entered. All she had to do was walk in and sit down and act like it was the most natural thing in the world for her to be there. Except that it _wasn't_, and everyone on the other side of that door knew it as well as she did.  
  
_Well it serves you right,_ she chided herself. _That's what you get for trying to murder people: the awkwardness of having to face them again afterward._  
  
Right, because that was the worst part of trying to murder people.   
  
She stifled a dark chuckle, biting down on the inside of her cheek to keep from lapsing back into her earlier hysteria.  
  
She didn't have to do this. She could start walking out of town right now and never come back. The Council might catch her; then again, they might not. It didn't seem like such a bad prospect as she stared at the doorknob, feeling for all the world like she was staring down the barrel of a gun.  
  
She shifted her feet again, and they almost began walking of their own volition, ready to follow her train of thought right out of Sunnydale. Annoyed by the temptation, she glared down at them and they stilled obediently. Running didn't sound like such a bad idea right now, but what about a year from now? Two years from now? Before she'd been in prison, she'd never been one to give much forethought to anything; she simply did as she pleased with no thought of the consequences. A good long year alone in her cell had given her plenty of time to do nothing _but_ think as the minutes and hours crawled endlessly by, and she'd had an eternity to consider the value of foresight. She still wasn't very good at planning ahead, but at least now she knew enough to think about it, even if she didn't listen to herself.  
  
Besides, it wasn't just that. If it had been simple fear of running from the Council she probably could have overcome it. She had something to prove here, to herself and everyone else. If she ran now all she'd be proving was that she couldn't handle it, and she didn't know if she'd _want_ to go on living, knowing that.  
  
Still…  
  
She chewed nervously on her lower lip, eyeing the doorknob.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"No, no, the Cult of Chemosh would never try to resurrect their founder. They would… consider it… tacky…" Giles trailed off as the bell above the door of the Magic Box dinged.  
  
Xander, who seemed about to make some kind of retort to Giles' statement, shut his open mouth and looked up.  
  
Anya paused in mid-ring at the checkout, which gave Xander actual chills to go with his surprise.  
  
"What?" Faith asked irritably, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of their stares. "Did I grow another head?"  
  
"Ah, no," Giles said, fumbling with his book as if he weren't quite sure how it had come to be in his hands. "Ah, please, d-do come in."  
  
"You know, you really shouldn't joke about such things on a Hellmouth," Anya admonished Faith quite seriously. Finishing her transaction with a perky smile, the ex-demon handed her customer his change and noticed he was looking at her strangely, wide-eyed and wary.   
  
"What?" she asked him, unperturbed. The man licked his lips nervously, and then, as if he feared she might bite him, he quickly took his change, grabbed his purchases, and hurried from the store with a furtive backward look.  
  
Faith abandoned the doorway, leaving the customer's escape route clear, and sauntered into the store, her posture all uncomfortable attitude as she made her way to the table where Giles and Xander were gathered.  
  
"Here," she said unceremoniously, throwing the box on the table as if she didn't quite know what else to do with it. It might have well been on fire, the way she cast it away from herself. Self-consciously, she shoved her hands in her pockets and backed up a step.  
  
"What's this?" Xander asked with brightly feigned curiosity, eyeing the box like it was a dangerous animal that might bite him.  
  
She shrugged. "Doughnuts."  
  
"Doughnuts?" Xander's brightness was no longer feigned as he fumbled the box open and gazed on the contents within. "They're all jelly," he whispered reverently, and then plucked one from its waxed paper cradle, biting into it greedily.  
  
Faith let him chew for a moment and then grinned widely. "Yeah, I thought jelly might make the arsenic taste better."  
  
Xander choked on his mouthful of doughnut, prompting Anya to come over and pat him worriedly on the back.  
  
"Lighten up, Xander. It was a joke."  
  
He gave her a hard look and swallowed. "Yeah. Very funny," he said in a tone that meant just the opposite.  
  
"So," she breezily changed the subject, determined to ignore the daggers he was staring at her. "What are we researching?" She pulled out a chair, turned it around and straddled it, resting her arms along the back of the seat.  
  
It took Giles a moment to realize she was addressing him. "Er… yes. Well, we're ah, researching vampire cults," he said, trying to find his place in the book he'd been looking at. "From what you've described, these vampires sound very organized, highly unusual in the vampire community." His voice smoothed out and he became more comfortable as he settled into the routine of espousing knowledge. "Vampires are usually solitary creatures, only banding together to form nests for feeding and safety. It's highly abnormal for vampires to band together in the numbers you've described unless they've founded some sort of religion or cult. It certainly suggests the presence of a very strong leader."  
  
He set the book down and ran a hand over his chin thoughtfully. "From what you've told us, this restoration scroll could be meant to bring someone back from the dead. Perhaps some kind of religious figure, or ancient leader, probably demonic in nature."  
  
"Why can't they just throw wild parties and have orgies like normal cults? It's always with this take over the world stuff. Don't they ever get bored with that?" Xander wondered aloud, still eyeing his doughnut cautiously.  
  
"I suppose they think the parties would be more fun with the humans in cages," Giles remarked dryly, easing one leg up on the table to lean in a half-sitting position. "Faith, can you remember anything else about these vampires? Anything distinctive? Markings perhaps? Strange clothing?"  
  
She frowned, thinking. "No. Pretty much they looked like the garden variety vampire."   
  
"Did any of them seem to be a leader? One who dressed differently, or gave orders to the others?"  
  
"No." She cut him an annoyed look. "I know what a leader…" she trailed off thoughtfully, a sudden thought occurring to her. "Wait. There was one. In the… fire. The one that busted my ribs. I remember… he was huge, really tall, very strong. He seemed different than the others. More… _there_."  
  
"Older than the others?" Giles prompted hopefully.  
  
"Maybe." She shrugged, unable to remember anything more. "He definitely packed one hell of a punch."  
  
"Did the others seem to defer to him at all?"  
  
"I didn't really get a good look," she answered irritably. "Too busy trying to save my Watcher, remember?"  
  
"Yes…" Giles glanced away uncomfortably. "I know this is… difficult for you to think about, Faith. But if we're going to stop these creatures, we're going to need all the information about them we can get."  
  
"I've already told you everything I can remember," she clarified with growing annoyance, dark eyes glittering harshly in the dim light of the store. "What about you?" she challenged. "You got any more information?"  
  
Giles seemed startled by her sudden vehemence. "Well…" He blinked, gathering his wits. "Cults often have a caste community, a hierarchy of sorts. They are more organized and ordered, and there are usually obvious differences in ranking among the members, the sort of differences that would be clear even in a combat situation. Sometimes the ranks are divided amongst members according to strength and deed, and sometimes ranking is decided by more simple means, such as age, or whether the vampire is male or female." He paused, looking back at her with a hopefulness that was mildly apologetic. "Does that help you recall anything more?"  
  
She started to shake her head again, then stopped, looking surprised as something occurred to her. "There _weren't_ any females," she realized.  
  
"No wonder they're so wound up," Xander commented, looking pleased with his assessment.  
  
"When Xander and I can't have sex I get _very_ cranky," Anya confided, nodding as if this sealed the case.  
  
"That happen to you often?" Faith quipped, raising an eyebrow at the other girl.  
  
"Oh, hardly ever," she answered, running a hand over Xander's shoulder almost proudly. Looking as if she were happy to have a chance to talk about it, she went on eagerly. "Xander's like a—"  
  
"Please," Giles interrupted, looking vaguely disturbed. "This could be very important. Faith, how many vampires have you encountered since you've been back in Sunnydale?"  
  
She thought for a moment, trying to tally the numbers, then finally shrugged. "A lot. Like fifty? More than that if you include the army that rushed us on the hill the other night."  
  
"And you've seen not a single female vampire among them?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Us, either," Xander agreed, sounding surprised, as if he'd only just realized it.  
  
"That's extremely unusual." Giles sounded pensive. "Sometimes vampire cults will have a matriarchal, ah, female rule, but more often they are patriarchies, run by the males. Still, in either case there are usually members of both genders present in the ranks."  
  
"Maybe they're the cult of He-Man Woman Haters?" Xander asked.  
  
"In any case, it gives us a better place to start researching. Perhaps Willow and Tara can…" Giles trailed off and glanced around, disconcerted. "Xander… where are Willow and Tara?"  
  
Xander looked away, shifting uncomfortably and looking guilty. "Will said they couldn't make it."  
  
An awkward silence fell over the group, during which everyone tried very obviously not to look at Faith. Except Anya. She looked at the Slayer very openly, and her thoughts were plain on her face.   
  
"Well, it is strange," Anya said, not quite sounding as if she were defending Willow. "I mean, we're all sitting around, planning strategies with an evil Slayer who tried to kill you all on several occasions, acting like it's normal." She paused, frowning as a thought occurred to her. "Though, I guess we do that with Spike all the time. Except that he's not a Slayer."  
  
"An…" Xander hedged, not quite meeting her eyes.  
  
"What?" Anya demanded. "Was I not supposed to say that?" She glanced around at them, looking confused and slightly hurt. "But it's true."  
  
Faith gave Anya the tiniest of grudging smiles, admiring her candor, her respect for the shopkeeper increasing a notch.   
  
"Why are you smiling?" Anya asked, her brow furrowing with suspicion, as if she suspected Faith might be mocking her.  
  
"Because I think it's funny, you having more balls than either one of the Hardy Boys, here."  
  
Anya perked up at that and looked around, oddly proud, her eyes challenging Giles and Xander both to argue with that. Neither of them did.  
  
"So," Faith cut into the silence with a breezy ease that hardly seemed forced at all. "You guys wanna hash this out support group style, or does somebody wanna hand me a book and keep this little charade going?"  
  
They gave her a book.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"I bet they're all sitting around pretending everything's just peachy," Willow grumbled, disgusted.  
  
Tara glanced at her, concern crouched at the edge of her features like a predator waiting to spring, her body perched unnaturally on the edge of the bed. "Speaking of which, shouldn't we be going?" she asked, attempting nonchalance.  
  
Willow shrugged moodily. "I already told Xander we weren't coming."  
  
Tara's face registered surprise first, and then her smooth features hardened with reluctant understanding. "Faith."  
  
"I just can't believe Giles is doing this," Willow went on, sounding helpless, oblivious to her lover's less than pleased reaction. "I mean first with the—the lecture and then being Faith's Watcher?" She shook her head and went on with woeful sarcasm. "I'm starting to think Xander might be onto something with his pod people theory."  
  
"Well, we should probably get used to it. She's going to be part of the group, at least until we figure out what's going on."  
  
Willow leapt from the bed and paced purposefully toward the desk, again failing to detect the hard undertone to her lover's optimistic words. "Not if I can help it." She opened the cover of the book atop the desk and thumbed the pages. "This spell will still work if we can just—"  
  
"Willow, you can't be serious?" Tara was aghast, her concern blossoming full-blown and edging into anger, leaving no doubt in Willow's mind as to her lover's opinion on the matter. "You're still going to try to bring Buffy back after everything that's happened? Did you completely _forget_ what we talked about last night?"  
  
"No," she turned and looked at Tara earnestly, cradling the book against her chest. "I-I know what you said about crossing lines, and I know what you think," she went on quickly before her lover could interrupt. "But Tara, the 'lines' are in different places for different people. The rules are written for people who aren't strong enough, or don't have enough control over their power. _I_ _have_ that power. I _have_ that control. I'm probably the most powerful witch on the continent. I can _do_ this."  
  
"Do you even hear what you're saying?" Tara asked in disbelief.  
  
"Tara…" Willow's voice was slightly pleading as she turned back toward the desk. "Please. I _have_ to."  
  
"No." Her heart hammered and her hands shook, but her voice betrayed no tremor, cutting like steel through the comforting shelter of the room they shared. "What you have to do is _stop_, Willow."   
  
Willow spun around and her eyes fastened on Tara; not with the soft, confused hurt she was used to seeing on Willow's face when they disagreed, but with a true, indignant anger that struck Tara's heart with as much force as a physical blow.  
  
"You're right. I don't _have_ to do _any_thing." Her voice sounded threatening, dark tones implying disregard for anyone else's opinion.  
  
"But you're going to?" Tara asked, finishing the logic with angry remorse. "God, Willow." She leapt from the bed and stood, feet planted wide apart, body drawn like a taut wire, anger barely contained by her slight frame, fists trembling at her sides. "What is _wrong_ with you?"  
  
Willow didn't have a reply to that. Her face fell, threatening storm clouds giving way to gentle rain, and she seemed lost, stricken by Tara's recrimination.  
  
"You really want to do this?" Tara asked, reluctant sincerity softening her voice. For just a moment her pain and love for Willow shone through clearly, anger receding behind growing resignation, and her posture slipped just a bit, opening with vulnerability to her lover.  
  
Willow's eyes filled with hope and she nodded. "God, Tara. Yes, I—"  
  
Tara cut her off with a swift movement of her hand, gathered up her sweater, jammed her arms stiffly into it, and grabbed her bag off the bed. It wasn't Willow's reply itself that filled her with rage, but the earnest longing behind it. The heartfelt words hit the wavering scale of her of mind, and slammed one side down with finality. If she had been open and vulnerable a moment before, she was locked tight as a safe now, the treasure of her heart sealed safely inside where her lover couldn't reach. Her face was cold, impassive as she looked at Willow, stolidly ignoring her lover's wounded deer eyes. "Do it without me, then."  
  
She turned to open the door and Willow threw the book down, calling out, "Tara! Baby? Don't!"  
  
Willow's wavering voice almost undid her. Tara's hand faltered mere millimeters from the doorknob, a lifetime of being conditioned to please responding to Willow's plea like a reflex.   
  
"Tara! Please!"  
  
For a split second she debated giving up, throwing herself into Willow's arms, burying her face in the haven of her lover's cinnamon colored hair and forgetting this awful fight had ever happened—and then anger overpowered her desire and reclaimed her again. She took a deep breath, momentarily pained by the thought that it might be her last breath drawn in this room that smelled comfortingly of comfrey and sage, spice and incense, safety and home. Then she grit her teeth, steeled herself, and threw open the door.  
  
"_Consisto!_" Willow's voice trembled with helpless rage, the force of her command halting Tara in the doorway, freezing her in place like a statue.  
  
Willow stood by the desk, almost as still as her lover, legs apart, one hand extended toward Tara palm outward, fingers tight together. For a moment frozen still as a sculpture, her face carved deep with lines of rage, eyes black and bright with wrath, like vengeance captured in her most primal essence. And then her hands began to tremble with delayed adrenaline and shock, the expressive lines in her face deepening in some places and smoothing in others, reforming in an expression of utter horror and deep regret. Her eyes, once again hazel-green, shone with tremulous, unshed tears. Slowly, she lowered the hand she had thrust out at Tara, staring at it in disbelief, tapered fingers looking innocuous as they were doubled and blurred by tears. Stunned, she raised her eyes to her lover's still form, lovely body frozen in mid-stride, voluminous skirt a swirl about her legs, honey blond hair swinging upward toward her cheek in a sharp wave, and she was struck again by the rashness of her reaction, by the wrongness of what she had done.  
  
"Tara… baby," her voice cracked with regret, twisting and seeming to break. Her offending hand rose to cover her mouth in shame. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I just… you couldn't leave me…" She pressed her hand against her mouth so hard that her lips felt bruised, drew a deep, shuddering breath, and closed her eyes for a moment.  
  
She hadn't meant to. It was a vicious betrayal of all Tara's trust in her to use magic against her like that. Guilt and sadness twisted and grated against each other inside her, and she had a moment where she felt as if she were standing on the edge of a cliff, her balance teetering precariously, her arms reaching out desperately to the insubstantial blue sky above. Maybe something _was_ wrong with her… everyone seemed to think so.   
  
She twisted away from the vision of her frozen lover, the sculpture of Tara flesh that she had created, and slammed her hand down on the desk in helpless frustration. She couldn't understand why Tara insisted on being so angry about this. Did she really think that Willow couldn't handle it? The others, she understood; they had known her when she was timid and afraid, good old reliable Willow who inspired neither fear nor ambition in others. They couldn't see what was right in front of them, didn't understand how much she'd grown, how much more powerful she'd become. But Tara… she'd met Tara later. Tara had never seen the side of her that was weak and uncertain, the side of her that was helpless. The others had stopped listening a long time ago; Willow was a fixture in their lives, they knew exactly what to expect from her and they saw it even when it wasn't there. But Tara always listened, always saw Willow for who she was and who she might become. And tonight Tara had not wanted to listen, either. Tara had been the one who refused to see. It felt like the final betrayal, Tara turning against her. She was trying to use her power for good, trying to help the world, and no one believed in her abilities. She was alone.  
  
The suspicion that something might be wrong with her slid away as panic tightened her chest, constricting her breath. Her knees went weak and watery with the knowledge of how close she'd come to losing Tara just then, and her heart felt painfully naked, exposed like a weeping child by her fear that no one would ever understand her, that no one would ever stay by her side forever. All rational thought fled before the terrifying idea, replaced by defense mechanisms that clicked unconsciously into place with years of practiced ease, and she was just plain old, scared Willow again, wanting only to make things better, make things right. Anything if only Tara wouldn't leave. Doubt and self-recrimination collided and crushed her beneath a wave of humility, and her mind leapt ahead, leaving her budding anger behind as she considered reparations. She'd made a mistake, she'd miscalculated… Tara just needed a little more time to adjust to the idea of how powerful Willow was becoming, and she had pushed when her lover wasn't ready. But it would be okay… she could make it right. She could be patient, she could give her lover time, ease her into the idea more cautiously. She was smart, powerful, improvising and clever.   
  
And she knew how to fix this.  
  
She reached her decision and didn't hesitate, moving next to Tara and slipping her fingers through her lover's, lacing them together with familiar ease. She breathed deep the heartbreaking scent of Tara's jasmine hair, so close to being lost forever, and knew that she was doing what was right. Her heart grew lighter with the knowledge, and a smile curved her lips as she caressed her lover's face. Such a simple thing. A single word and she could undo all the damage that had been done. A single word to make everything right again. How could using that kind of power ever be wrong when you were using it for the good?  
  
She took a moment to compose herself, poised in the threshold of the door next to her lover, ready to step forward with her when the paralysis broke.  
  
"_Oblivio. Solvo._"   
  
Tara took her next step forward through the doorway and Willow moved with her at her side.  
  
"I think we should have lunch by the footbridge, maybe feed the ducklings," Willow said without missing a beat. Her voice was casual, as if they had been in the middle of nothing more than a mundane conversation, and if there was a frantic undercurrent to it, it was easily disguised beneath the earnest, edge-of-excitement expression she so often wore when making plans.  
  
Tara blinked, looked around, and then smiled at Willow innocently. "At the park?"  
  
"Of course at the park, silly. Don't you remember?" Willow chided her lightly, watching Tara's face closely. Her smile was brilliant, frozen on her lips like crystal, but her heart beat a crazy rhythm in her chest, and she forced herself to breathe calmly.  
  
"I just forgot for a second, I guess," Tara said with a comfortable shrug. Then she paused her step in the hallway as if a thought had just occurred to her, and Willow's heart ceased to beat for an instant. The second of silence between them seemed eternal as Willow waited, afraid to breathe—and then Tara cut Willow a devilish sideways look, her smile curving slyly. "Are you sure you don't want to eat in, though?"  
  
Her heart resumed beating with a thunderous burst and she swallowed against its force, her smile never straying. Slowly, the urgency of fear faded, being replaced with a more pleasurable urgency that was no less electric. "Hmm. I guess we could order Chinese," Willow said, sliding up closer to Tara's side.  
  
Tara's face was open, without guile as she kissed her, and Willow knew she'd forgotten their fight. The spell had worked. She felt a momentary twinge of guilt and then buried it, not wanting to dwell on unpleasantness anymore. It would be okay… just this once, it would be okay.  
  
Her lips pressed against her lover's, Willow laid her fingers lightly on Tara's hips, guiding her backward into the bedroom. She shut the door behind them and let the thought fall from her mind.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"Come on, Spike, you know you're bad for business," Willy pleaded querulously.  
  
Spike glared up at him from the barstool, pale fingers tightening on the handle of his mug. He leaned toward the bartender menacingly and Willy backed up a quick step, stumbling and nearly falling over his own feet in the process. Spike let a slow, mean grin spread over his features at the spectacle, and sat back again, looking satisfied.  
  
"Not like you could hurt me, anyway," Willy defended himself petulantly.  
  
Spike looked up at Willy from beneath brows that seemed to challenge the bartender to argue with him. "You got insurance, right Willy?" He gave the entirety of the bar a cursory glance. "Be a bloody shame if something bad happened to your property while you weren't around, now wouldn't it? Never know when some bloke might take into his head to bugger up the place but good." He leaned forward again slightly, leather coat creaking around him as he confided, "And if I couldn't drink here anymore, I'd probably get very… violent."  
  
"O-okay, Spike," Willy relented, trying to pretend some kind of dignity and backbone. "But if my place gets busted up because of you I'm putting it on your tab," he added hastily, hurrying away before the platinum blond vampire could retaliate.  
  
Spike watched the bartender's retreating back with a derisive sneer, and then turned his attention moodily back to the depths of his beer glass. Actually, he'd come here _hoping_ for a fight, anything to take his mind off the things that had been happening lately. Ever since the Scoobies had tried to resurrect Buffy the other night, he'd had a bad feeling about it all, like everything was going south. Dread filled him like a slowly expanding lead balloon, and he had an inexorable sense of being swallowed bit by bit. He hadn't credited it much at first. He'd never been a big believer in precognition, despite his time with Dru; she'd been an exception, and even her visions had been murky, difficult to predict the outcome of.  
  
He watched patrons and potential stress-relievers enter the bar, eyeing each of them carefully and taking in their measure. None of them seemed inclined to pay any attention to him however, and whenever any of their eyes fell on him, they quickly shied away. He practically radiated testosterone and violence, and wisely, no one seemed to want a part of it. Not yet, anyway. Give them time for a few more drinks; maybe they'd be more inclined to step up. Resigned to waiting a bit longer, he lapsed into deep thought and tried to pin down the source of this nagging feeling of unease. He didn't like it. It made him cranky, distracted him, threw him off his game.  
  
Distracted as he was, he felt it instantly when _she_ walked in the room, and even if he hadn't, the way that everyone else froze for an instant in what they were doing, their eyes riveted on the door as if transfixed, would have gotten his attention. He turned to look, saw a shapely figure with a short skirt and long red hair, and felt the surprise of recognition.  
  
"Spike! Sugar!" she cried in delight, her eyes fixing on him with a broad smile. "Well bless my soul!" she exclaimed, sauntering up to him with effortless grace.  
  
As if by mutual agreement, everyone returned to their individual activities and the sound of clinking glasses and quiet conversation filled the room again.  
  
Spike eyed the woman speculatively, rubbing a hand over his chin. "You don't _have_ a soul, luv."  
  
"Details!" She said with a dismissive wave, helping herself to the barstool next to his. Stepping up on to it, she sat down, crossed her long legs and arched her back, running a hand through her fiery mane of hair. Spike's eyes traveled down the length of her shapely, tanned legs as if unable to help himself, and it took him a moment to pull himself together enough to focus on what she was saying.  
  
"So good to see you again!" she was prattling on. "What was it, the 70's?" She looked him up and down in rapt appraisal. "See you kept the punk look. I always loved that. What a surprise to find you here in Sunnydale! Is Drusilla here?"  
  
"No. We, ah…" He made a descriptive gesture, then shrugged, not wanting to dwell on it.  
  
"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry." Her ruby lips formed a small, apologetic "o". "I always thought you two just made the cutest little couple. If you ever need anything…" she trailed off, patting his leg reassuringly, the arch of her brow letting him know how very much she meant _anything_, and he felt tingles race up his thigh to his spine, lodging in his brain with primal urges and bad intent.  
  
"Your power doesn't work on me, love," he reminded her, wondering if that was strictly true. Looking into her amber eyes, he found himself stuck there, fascinated by her beauty, and he had to shake his head to break the gaze and break her hold. Damned succubi, he thought, rubbing at the bridge of his nose and feeling a headache begin to form behind his eyes. And that was a hell of a thing, wasn't it? Undead for over a hundred years and he still had to suffer something as mundanely human as a headache. 'Course it was supernatural things that caused it, like the woman sitting next to him, her body and presence like sex personified.  
  
"That's all right, sugar," she said agreeably. "For you, I'd make an exception."   
  
She tipped him a wink, and he smiled a little, not quite able to help himself. Little minx might be a handful but he still found her charming, which was unusual given her cheery disposition, and he suspected it had something to do with her powers of persuasion. He glanced around the room and noted the eyes that roved over her form, the males covetously, the females with jealousy. Yet none of them could quite muster the wrinklies to do anything about it, and he suspected that they never would. Succubi were notoriously difficult to kill. Not because of their prowess in battle, but simply because they charmed the pants off everyone they met, usually literally. Thankfully, they weren't very powerful beyond that, and most demons weren't in any danger from them anyway, since succubi preferred to feed on souls and didn't tend to be very violent.  
  
She had begun chattering on during his momentary lapse, and try as he might, he couldn't quite puzzle out what the bloody hell she was talking about.  
  
"Cherry," he interrupted, invoking the succubi's name to get her attention, nearly cringing with the loathing he felt as it left his lips. She was a bit of all right, but what the sodding hell had she been thinking when she'd picked a stupid name like _Cherry_? She stopped talking in mid-word and looked up at him expectantly from beneath sooty lashes. "What are you doing in Sunnydale, luv?"  
  
Amber eyes widened beneath dark lashes, and for a moment the innocence he saw in her was exquisite in its absolution. He blinked, attempting to focus.  
  
"Haven't you heard, honey? The message is going out all over. Sunnydale's the place to be for vampires these days. Something big is coming."  
  
Unimpressed, he shrugged with one shoulder. "It's Sunnydale, luv. There's _always_ something big going on here. Never know what you're going to get. It's like Christmas in Hell."  
  
She lowered her voice, silken honey softening conspiratorially, and glanced around. "No, this is huge. Some kind of unholy sacrament."  
  
His brows shot up in surprise, but he kept his alarm concealed behind the mask of cynical detachment he wore like a second skin. "Really?" His voice portrayed just the right amount of skepticism and interest.  
  
She continued on in a whisper. "I hear it's a—"  
  
"Excuse me, miss." A large, misshapen Sabanshi demon insinuated itself between them, giving Spike a withering look before turning toward Cherry. "But you don't want to be seen hanging around with this type, here." He gestured at Spike as if he were some offensive pile of demon offal.  
  
"Really?" Cherry asked brightly, rolling with his interruption with predictable charm and ease. "Why is that, sugar?"  
  
Spike rolled his tongue against the inside of his cheek and bit down on it in amusement. They might not have the stones to challenge _her_, but they'd finally managed to work up the nerve to cut _him_ out of the picture. He wondered what beautiful pearls of wisdom the mentally dim demon would have to impart to her.  
  
"Yeah. See, he's on the side of the bad guys," the demon told her conspiratorially.  
  
Spike rolled his eyes and snorted an abrupt laugh. "We _are_ the bad guys, you stupid git."  
  
The demon turned toward him, appearing momentarily baffled, eyes almost rolling up inside its head as it considered that.  
  
Spike didn't hesitate. He launched himself fist-first at the creature, smashing its lumpy nose flat in a spatter of green goo that nearly blinded them both. Wiping at his eyes, he was unprepared for the punch that caught him in the stomach and lifted him off his feet, throwing him several yards across the room to smash into a table full of beer glasses and bottles. His coat took the brunt of the damage, and he was on his feet instantly, snarling, face shifting into full vampire mode as he attacked the larger demon again.  
  
Oh yeah, this was _exactly_ what he'd been needing.  
  
Several shiny bruises, bleeding cuts and beer bottles to the head later, Spike stood triumphant over the unconscious Sabanshi demon.  
  
He looked over the sea of faces that surrounded him, scanning for any that might want to challenge him now that their buddy was down. No one moved except for Willy, who stood at the end of the bar, wringing his hands and making strangled noises as he surveyed the extent of the damage. Apparently the demon had come alone.  
  
It would be a pretty penny, paying for this mess, and he wasn't sure one fight was worth the money this would cost. He'd pay Willy of course, only because he didn't want this place to go to seed, or even worse, go out of business. A vampire had to have somewhere decent to drink and pick a good fight, after all. But he'd gotten just about all he was going to get out of this place tonight.  
  
"Come on, then, luv," he said turning back to look for Cherry—  
  
The barstool was empty. She'd vanished as if she'd never been there at all.  
  
  
_


	4. Mortal Ground 2 Chapter 4: Travesty

CHAPTER 4: TRAVESTY  
  
Drowning like a fly in my drink  
You drone about being on the brink  
But I really don't care what you think  
Oh I'm sick of it all  
Sick of it all.  
I hate the way it's always the same  
Hate recrimination and blame  
And you just wait for me to fuck up again  
Oh I'm sick of it all   
Sick of it all.  
  
            ~Trap, The Cure  
______________________________________________  
  
"Wow, Giles," Faith said dryly, surveying the room as she stepped inside the Magic Box. Late afternoon sunlight slanted lazily through the plate glass windows with an almost blinding effect, illuminating the store with brilliant, golden light that cast long, strange shadows behind the Watcher, the store's only visible occupant. "You the only survivor?"  
  
"I'm here," Anya said with a sensible shrug, all business as she appeared from behind a bookshelf nearby. A strange light glimmered in her eyes for an instant as she informed Faith with just a trace of irritation, "I'm always here. The store _is_ half mine, you know."  
  
She fixed Anya with a confused look, about to comment when Giles set his book down on the table in flutter of flustering motion, distracting her, his composure hesitant as he met her eyes. "O-of course there's Anya and... Xander and Willow… they're ah, in the back room."  
  
"Willow's here?" she blurted, surprised, and instantly wanted to kick herself. _Really smooth_. She hadn't expected the witch to be there. In fact, she'd expected Willow to find a reason not to be there every day until Faith got a new Watcher. And Faith had really been okay with that.  
  
"Yes. And, and, Tara as well." Giles paused for a moment, his posture as tentative as his words, and silence hung thick in the air between the three of them, threatening to smother them with its weight. At last Giles pulled his gaze away, adjusted his glasses, and motioned toward the table with the uncomfortable air of fulfilling protocol. "Please. Have a seat."  
  
Faith gave him a guarded look, then folded her arms and swaggered almost reluctantly toward the table. This was still all so weird, and she thought that even if they did this every day for the next hundred years it would still feel as awkward as it did today. She'd never been good with the whole Slayer/Watcher thing anyway, and now her assigned Watcher was a person whose friends she'd tried to kill on several occasions. Darkly, she wondered if Miss Manners had any advice to smooth over that kind of awkwardness.  
  
She reached the table but didn't sit, dark eyes bouncing back and forth between Giles' handsome features and the fine wood grain of the table, shifting her weight uncertainly. "So. How's the study group going? We still stuck at cults?"  
  
He glanced down at the table, subtly but effectively averting his eyes, and she could tell that he wasn't satisfied with the answer he had to give her. "Yes."   
  
That was all he said. That was all he needed to say. They'd spent somewhere upwards of eight straight hours researching books yesterday, reading until Faith thought she would go insane from the boredom, and they'd found absolutely nothing helpful. She shook her head and snorted dark laughter, the twinkle in her eye not all together pleasant. "We're screwed, aren't we?"  
  
"N-not exactly." He didn't sound completely certain of himself, but there was a hint of indignation in his tone that gave her a slight glimmer of hope. "At least we know we're on the right track."  
  
She frowned at him with sudden suspicion, feeling a dark cloud of warning sweep over her mood. She didn't like the idea of them making discoveries without her, it made her feel… unnecessary. But more than that she was filled with a feeling of foreboding that she wasn't going to like what he had to say. "And how do we know that?"  
  
Giles opened his mouth to reply, but the voice that answered her wasn't his; this voice swaggered with arrogance, carrying just a tinge of mocking, its English accent drawled rather than precisely spoken.  
  
"Had myself a bit of an encounter last night," Spike said, smirking as he appeared behind the counter from thin air, causing Faith to flinch.  
  
"Damn. Don't you ever knock, or announce yourself?" she snapped, slightly agitated that she'd been thrown by his presence. The moment of surprise past, she realized that he must have emerged through the shadowy doorway behind the counter. His appearance here in broad daylight confirmed Giles' explanation that the door led down to the basement and the sewers. Either that or Spike slept down there, and judging by the lingering scents of tobacco, whiskey and wild nights that clung to his leather duster, she didn't think it was likely Anya or Giles would go for that.  
  
He gave a short bark of laughter. "Here's a tip for you Slayer: if they don't know you're coming, they don't run away." He advanced a step on her, attempting, she thought, to appear menacing. "Trapped," he explained, tilting his head to the side at a predatory angle. "No struggle at all when you pounce."  
  
"Dating tips from the undead," she observed in a wry voice, clearly unimpressed, and she could have sworn she heard someone snicker. "Let me write that down."   
  
He rolled his eyes and shook his head, exasperation etching his features, and she took a moment to admire just how quickly the rapport between them disintegrated. "You know, I don't know _why_ I saved you."  
  
"Slayer fetish?" she mocked with a nasty grin.  
  
A muscle in his jaw twitched once; she could actually _see_ the scathing reply forming inside him, and she tensed in anticipation of its delivery.  
  
The door to the back room opened and Xander stepped out, hesitating as he caught sight of the confrontation. Momentarily distracted, Spike had turned his attention back to Faith to deliver his retort when Anya walked up between them, large, brown eyes looking back and forth from one to the other with intense curiosity.   
  
"Why are you two fighting?" she asked, suspicious, as if she suspected some kind of joke were being played. "I thought you were friends. You know, birds of an evil feather?"  
  
They both laughed derisively, the sound brittle and harsh as it skittered through the open area of the store, and asked in simultaneous, utter disbelief, "Friends?"   
  
"Yes," Anya said, sounding annoyed that she had to clarify. "You saved her life, and she helped you stop us from casting that spell," she explained, as if she might be explaining a new concept to young children. "And you're both incredibly arrogant and like to brag and swagger." Her lovely brow beetled for a moment as she reflected on that. "A lot."  
  
"So?" they asked in unison, sounding impatient and moody, recalcitrant children who cut each other nasty sideways looks when they heard the other echo their words.  
  
Anya looked them both up and down and raised one delicate brow, folding her arms over her chest. "And you're both overly fond of wearing black denim and leather." She looked oddly proud of her observation, like a detective who'd found a subtle but telling clue.  
  
Spike and Faith opened their mouths to protest, looking down at their clothing, then glancing at each other. Their eyes met and the words died in their throat, all traces of mirth fading from their faces as they shared a look of sudden realization.  
  
"You're like…" Anya searched for the words, her enthusiasm increasing as she remembered. "Two peas in a pod. Frick and Frack. Hans and Franz."   
  
"Mary-Kate and Ashley!" Xander chimed in, causing everyone to turn and look at him oddly. He gave a nervous, almost giddy titter and shrugged, backing up a step. "My mind sometimes makes frightening connections."  
  
"He's right!" Anya said quickly, diverting their attention from her discomfited boyfriend. "Only… less evil," she added with a vague wave.  
  
Realization turned to shock and denial as it slid down the slippery slope of confusion, their expressions mirroring each other's comically, finally settling into disbelief and angry acceptance.  
  
"Mary-Kate and Ashley are evil?" Xander sounded inconsolable.  
  
As one, Spike and Faith made a disgusted noise and spun away from each other, stalking off in opposite directions.   
  
"Whatever."  
  
"Get bent."  
  
"Mary-Kate and Ashley are _more_ evil than _Faith and Spike_?" Xander asked in plaintive disbelief. When no one answered him, he threw up his hands, shook his head and went back into the training room, muttering to himself.  
  
Faith threw her back against the wall, arms folded over her chest, annoyed. Spike disappeared into a row of shelves and assumed the exact same posture in the exact same manner, though luckily, neither of them realized it.  
  
Anya watched the two of them go, then gave a mild shrug and walked back to the cash register, unconcerned with their annoyance.  
  
Giles glanced down at the table and swallowed a smile, amused somehow despite the immaturity and implications of the display. He took a moment to compose himself, cleared his throat and looked up again, attempting to catch Faith's eye, his expression now quite serious.  
  
"Faith—"  
  
The door to the back room of the Magic Box burst open and Xander stepped out again, this time carrying a small, cardboard box. "Giles, where should I—"  
  
Everyone turned to look at him—  
  
And the bell over the front entrance of the Magic Box rang out loud and shrilly as the door was thrown open. Instantly, rushing wind filled the store, and in its wake bottles rattled in musical discontent and dust stirred, painting the air with movement for a moment before the motes dispersed in a swirling dance among brightly colored sheets of paper.  
  
"As it has been done, so let it be wrought, as misery as has been visited, so let it be brought—"  
  
As one, everyone in the shop stumbled back a step against the onslaught of air, turning their faces into the wind and shielding their eyes, trying to locate their attacker. It was difficult to see through the afternoon glare and swirling debris, and all they could make out was a dark outline, framed by the doorway and limned in a halo of sunlight. Anya staggered and nearly fell against the wall behind the counter, forcing her slim body against the will of the wind, clutching fingers skittering up the wall and throwing the shop's night time light switches, illuminating their foe in bright fluorescence.  
  
"Dawn!" Xander exclaimed in shock, dropping the box he had been holding.  
  
The teenaged girl stood, coltish legs wide apart, her pretty face almost savage as she continued reciting the words of the incantation, her hand extended, palm upward, holding the main component of the spell she was casting. Her hair whipped and flew about her slim form, buffeting her body in ways that seemed impossible to ignore, and yet she did, paying no mind to its blinding strands or stinging strikes, oblivious to everyone else in the shop, her eyes fixed on the object of her spell. She was beautiful; a young green-eyed goddess filled with wild power and indomitable will, and in that moment it seemed that nothing could hope to stand against her.  
  
Faith rose from her fighting crouch as she realized Dawn's intent, and she stood straight, dark eyes meeting light, mocha to emerald. Just a glimmer of what she felt showed and reflected there; surprise, the slightest hint of sadness and memory, admiration. "Pip," she said, her voice half disbelief, half grudging admiration, too quiet to be heard above the noise of the wind.  
  
"What evil deeds have gone before, let them now return in kind and more—"  
  
The door to the back room burst open again and Willow forced her way through the opening, red hair flying wildly about her frightened face. Her panic seemed to increase tenfold when she saw the perpetrator of the spell, and the knowledge froze her solid with horror. "Dawnie! No!"  
  
They were all so concerned, and yet they stood, shocked and immobilized, beguiled by Dawn's innocence and paralyzed by their own disbelief. Time seemed to both speed up and slow down. Faith had the sense that everything was happening very quickly; she hadn't as yet processed her brain's directive to move, but she had time to watch the box Xander had dropped fall to the floor, tumbling end over end, contents breaking free, each item imprinted in her mind with crystal clarity as it spun free of its cardboard confines and spilled to the floor, clattering away soundlessly as it was caught up in the grip of the wind. She had time to see Willow burst through the door behind them, had an eternity to take in the detail of the petite redhead's face, to note the nuances of the fear embedded there. She saw that Giles alone seemed to have the presence of mind to rush the girl, but the wind held him back, and through the maelstrom of paper and small debris, Faith saw Dawn's lips curve in a sly, triumphant smile.  
  
"Let them torment her forevermore." The wind ramped up, its dull roar becoming a high-pitched whistle.  
  
"_Mei_." She began the final words to complete the command. "_Nutus_." The wind fairly howled and everyone found themselves sliding backward on their feet, pushed back by the power of the magic around them.  
  
"_Attinet_." The wind screamed, as if expectant of the events to come, as if anticipating its reward… and Dawn stood, her face completely still as she gazed at Faith, her eyes blazing hatred at the Slayer. She took one, last deep breath—  
  
--and crushed the component in her hand to a fine powder, turning her hand over and letting the dust sift through her fingers. Her eyes were deliberate as she looked at Faith, and in the sudden absence of the howling wind, their locked gazes were the loudest sound.  
  
"This close," Dawn said, her voice tinged by just the barest tremor. "One more word, and you would have been the most miserable Slayer ever to live. For about five minutes," she added meaningfully.  
  
"Dawn!" Giles broke in, sounding shocked, the first of them to regain his wits.  
  
The girl ignored him. "I could have hurt you. Could have _killed_ you. I had you right in my hands—and I let you go. Remember that next time you get the urge to hurt one of _us_."  
  
"Dawn. In the back room. Now." Giles' voice was clipped, tense, brooking no argument or intervention.  
  
Dawn began walking toward the room, never taking her eyes from the Slayer. Faith turned and watched her, their gazes remaining locked until the younger girl disappeared behind the door.  
  
The door clicked into place and Faith felt the wires of tension leave her limbs, only to be replaced by the leaden weight of guilt. Her heart ached as if it had been pierced as it slowed its adrenaline-powered rhythm, and the image of Dawn, hair flying wildly around her as she stared Faith down with hatred-filled eyes, was burning its way permanently into her mind. She blinked, and the image, crisp and fresh, was replaced with a tattered, well-worn memory of Dawn when she'd been twelve years old, large, luminous green eyes like a cat's as she'd gazed up at Faith in awe and wonder.  
  
_"You're a Slayer, too?"_ _the question uttered with breathless admiration._  
  
She'd almost worshipped Faith, had begged the Slayer to teach her the moves that her big sister stolidly refused to show her. She'd been all gangly legs and no grace then, only the barest hint of the woman she would become concealed in her round, childish features, always harassing Faith and Buffy with her high-pitched squeaky voice. Faith had started calling her Pipsqueak, eventually shortening it to Pip as she had gotten fonder of the girl. Of them all, Dawn had liked her most, had sought her company most often, and Faith had finally relented and shown her a few moves; nothing fancy, just some kicks and blocks, how to throw a good punch, the kind of stuff that could help a young girl out with schoolyard bullies or pushy boys. But _oh_, had Buffy been pissed when she'd found out about that. Faith had thought B was going to try to kick her ass right then and there. She was pretty sure that Buffy had never forgiven her for it, either, but she would never know, because it hadn't been long after that that Faith had turned against them all. She remembered when the others had found out; Dawn had taken it the hardest, had been the one who believed in her the longest. She could still remember the look in the girl's eyes when she'd tied her up; the utter betrayal reflected in those green depths as yet another piece of childhood innocence was stripped away. Dawn had still been a little girl then, so delicate and fragile, hopes and dreams still idealized in her mother, her sister, her friends. That little girl was gone now, replaced by a young woman with a sanguine voice and eyes that had found their maturity in much harder places than they should have.  
  
Dawn's hatred of her, absolute in its finality, hurt her far more than she wanted to admit, and standing there in that room, surrounded by people in whom she inspired nothing except revulsion, she felt the loss of that hero-worship keenly. Her heart curled up and blackened around the edges, wisps of ash falling away, leaving her chest feeling burnt, empty, profoundly raw and hollow. She wanted to crawl deep into her bones and hide from the truth of herself. Resentment paced her soul like a caged beast, longing to slip its chains and visit this selfsame hurt upon them all. Vibrant red and black, it buzzed and vibrated through her body, swallowing the sadness whole, making her limbs prickle with anxious, violent energy.  
  
She flexed her muscles sinuously and took a deep breath, forcing herself to relax. It seemed she could feel everyone's eyes burning into her, and she pushed away her unwelcome thoughts, lifting a cool, indifferent gaze to greet them. Their eyes seemed to stutter, and everyone exchanged uncertain looks before glancing uncomfortably away. Willow stared longingly at the closed door, as if she'd like to follow Dawn and Giles into the room, but didn't quite dare. Xander just stood there, completely at a loss and not bothering to mask his confusion. Only Anya moved about the room, hurriedly picking up papers and muttering angrily about teenagers and spells. "Don't we know any spells _without_ wind?" Her voice seethed with biting sarcasm as she called out rhetorically to them, and everyone seemed startled by the sudden sound.  
   
"I don't think she likes you," Spike informed Faith as if mildly remarking on the weather, nodding his head toward the door to indicate that he meant Dawn. He had, apparently, abandoned the cover of the bookshelves at some point during the disturbance.  
  
She brought her shoulders up like armor, tossing dark hair back over one shoulder, and fixed him with a dispassionate stare that challenged him to make her care. "Pip and I go way back."  
  
He gave her a penetrating look the reeked of vexation and mockery. "You ever call anyone by their real name?"  
  
"Sure." Her whole body shrugged with an air of tight indifference. "Blondie."  
  
"Can't imagine why anyone wouldn't like you," he quipped, nastily.  
  
"Really?" Sarcasm snaked from her voice in bright, shiny tendrils, dark eyes wide with feigned innocence as she mocked him in return. Then, like a snake shedding its skin, the expression dropped from her face to reveal the dispassionate anger beneath. "Want me to show you?"  
  
And though she was very eager to hear Spike's return on that, warming to the violent outlet he was providing her, it was Willow's cold voice that replied. "Maybe because you held her and her mother hostage and threatened to kill them? Or tried to kill her sister on multiple occasions? And almost killed her sister's boyfriend? And her sister's best friends?" The witch's face was like stone as she faced down the Slayer, hard and unforgiving.  
  
Faith's eyes narrowed, muscles tensing, and it was a monumental effort on her part to remain calm. She wasn't thrilled with the person pointing out her past mistakes, but she couldn't refute the truth of them, either. She _had_ done all of those things, and she _did_ deserve what Dawn had almost dished out. But she knew that already; didn't need the witch rubbing it in like salt in a wound, agitating her already considerable annoyance. Faith pivoted smoothly on her feet, her face a mask of arrogant indifference as she lifted her chin, gazing down her nose at the witch. _Don't hit her. Don't hit her._ "Could have something to do with it," she said, her voice flatly sarcastic. She lifted one shoulder in a disinterested shrug.  
  
Her seeming indifference only aroused Willow's ire. "I'm thinking: everything to do with it. Do you even _remember_ what you did to us all?"  
  
"I'm sure you're about to remind me. Am I gonna need to pull up a chair here, make some popcorn?" Faith's patience was played out, and Willow seemed too angry to know it… or maybe she just didn't care.  
  
Willow made a disgusted noise and rolled her eyes to the side. "Do you ever get tired of being a smart-ass?"  
  
That did it. Screw manners and diplomacy. "I don't know. You ever get tired of being a self-righteous bitch?"  
  
Willow's eyes went wide and her nostrils flared with angry breath, and Faith thought she heard Xander back up a step, but she didn't quite dare take her eyes off Willow long enough to look.  
  
"Look who's talking!" the redhead shot back vehemently. "Walking around here like you're all 'wicked cool' and 'five by five', like anybody even _knows_ what that _means_, acting like you have every right to be here when you're lucky to be walking at all."  
  
"You wanna try to fix that for me?" Faith asked in menacing undertone, taking a step closer to Willow. The hell with this walking around on eggshells crap. The witch had been gunning for her since the beginning, and even though she couldn't really blame her, Faith had taken about as much as she was going to take. Sooner or later everything was bound to explode between them; it was inevitable. Might as well be sooner. "Come on, Willow." She spread her arms open wide. "Hit me with your best shot. You know you want to."  
  
Fire leaped into the witch's eyes, and she wound like a coiled cobra about to spring. Faith's face split in a mirthless grin, her fingers clenching into fists, dark eyes shooting eager sparks as she prepared to meet the strike—and then the witch faltered, her eyes flickering uncertainly. Willow took a hesitant step backward, and Faith saw fear flutter like frightened birds captured in the depths of her hazel-green eyes. Predator to predator, eye to eye, Faith looked into the primeval depths of her opponent's soul and understood. Willow's fear wasn't of Faith; her fear was of herself, of what she might do if she unleashed her rage on the Slayer.  
  
She leaned closer to the witch and gave her a nasty grin. "What? Afraid you might get off on it?"  
  
Behind her, unseen and forgotten, Spike blinked in surprise and gave a grudging grin of admiration.  
  
Willow's face simultaneously flushed and tightened with anger—and Xander belatedly stepped between them, looking at Faith as if he thought she might have lost her mind.  
  
"Uh, Faith, if you're trying to stay alive? Not lookin' good for the home team," he advised, only half-kidding in his trademark, flatly frantic voice.  
  
Willow looked as though she were made of stone that might explode, eyes like flint and steel, her mouth a tiny seam set in smoothly curved marble. Faith felt the corner of her own mouth quirk in a hard smile, her body thrilling with the anticipation of a fight. God she was so much better at this than dancing around with words or keeping her mouth shut. This is what she was built for.  
  
But then Willow's taut posture eased a fraction, and her chin lifted upward with a haughty tilt that Faith was far too familiar with. "No, it's okay Xander," she said her voice icy calm. "I'm not like _her_."  
  
Faith snorted cynical disbelief. "Oh, so _now_ you're all great and noble?" she sneered, incensed by Willow's choice of defense. "You didn't sound so _humble_ when you were deciding whether Buffy should live or die."   
  
The red splotches on Willow's cheeks grew brighter, the only indication of exactly how infuriated she was with the Slayer. "There's a big difference between taking life and giving it, Faith."  
  
_--You cannot create life. That is not your gift.--  
  
--Death was my gift. I wonder what yours will be?--_  
  
"No matter what you do, you'll always be a killer, a taker. Self-righteous would mean that I think I'm better than you. That's not true. I don't _think _I'm better than you," Willow said, her eyes as calm and cold as her voice, completely certain. "I _know_."  
  
_Don't hit her. Don't hit—oh, fuck it_. Faith stepped forward, her fist drawing back, about to push Xander out of the way—  
  
And the door to the back room opened again and Giles stepped halfway out, pushing at his glasses in a familiar, self-conscious gesture. "Ah, Willow. Could you come back here, please?"  
  
"Sure," she answered, voice flat, her eyes still locked with Faith's, the gauntlet thrown, the challenge met.  
  
Faith eased back on her back foot, hand slowly coming down at her side. She swallowed hard and grit her teeth, forcing a brittle smile. "Your lucky day."  
  
"Yours," Willow returned casually with a slight movement of her head, matter of fact as she broke the glare between them. Turning, she slipped by Giles into the back room without a backward glance. Giles hesitated a moment, looking at Faith, oddly questioning, as if he knew he had missed something important but didn't quite know what. Then he nodded once and disappeared behind the door as well.  
  
Xander sighed and gave Faith a reproachful look. "Well. That was… vicious."  
  
She gave him a surly shrug. "She started it."  
  
"Too bad," Spike said musingly, staring after Willow. "Would have liked to see that particular Sunnydale Deathmatch."  
  
"Yeah. You must have been really entertained to stick around _that_ long and keep your mouth shut. Must be a new record," she commented, snidely. Straightening her stance, she seemed to be settling in to continue at length when her right foot came down on something small and plastic with a resounding snap. Her tirade momentarily forgotten, she frowned, kneeling down to pick up the object. She held it up curiously, brow crinkling in amusement as she recognized what it was.  
  
"Give me that!" Xander snapped, snatching the piece of dark plastic from her fingers.  
  
Faith tucked a dark lock of hair behind one ear, looked up and flashed him a taunting grin. "Sorry, Xander. Didn't mean to break your _hair clip_."  
  
"It's not mine," he answered abruptly. He seemed about to say more, then glanced away, shoulders slumping as the sudden anger drained from him like a flash-fire burning itself out, leaving his face a barren plain, his expression ruined and exposed. "It was Buffy's," he said, voice quiet as he let it slip from his fingers to fall into the now-empty cardboard box.  
  
"Oh." Her voice was quiet, twisting with discomfort in the silence of the shop. Behind her, she heard Spike move away, leaving her alone to face the awkward moment. Too many sharp ups and downs, too much hatred, too many recriminations, too much sadness… it all pushed against the thin skin of her heart until she thought it might burst, Buffy's name like the final nail. It burst the fragile balloon of her anger, leaving her hollow and haunted again, and she wished fervently for the armor of her hatred; so much easier to bear than this. Robbed of her arsenal of vicious words and stinging retorts, she was left not quite knowing what to say. It didn't seem right to simply walk away, leaving Buffy's ghost hanging like heartbreaking specter between them.  
  
"Do you need any… help?" She tried to mask her uncertainty with bravado and heard it fail stunningly.  
  
Xander's eyes could have burned holes through her, the way they caught fire with her words, and Faith was left with the impression that she had just trod upon holy ground and sullied it with her passing.  
  
"No," he replied shortly, and knelt to pick up the rest of the scattered items he had collected from the training room earlier. She watched as his hand closed around a hair comb, palm squeezing it, pressing the thin plastic points as deep into his skin as they would go without breaking. "You've already got everything you want, don't you? Buffy's job, Buffy's Watcher, Buffy's Scooby Gang, and soon enough you'll have Buffy's training room, once we pick it clean of her reminders." His eyes cut upward to look at her like twin scythes, and she shivered, imagining the feel of cold steel through her flesh. "You don't get to have Buffy's friends, too, so stop trying."  
  
She swallowed hard against a retort about not wanting losers like them for friends, anyway, and turned her eyes away from him. She felt drained, so tired of fighting and struggling. "I…" she trailed off, the words sticking in her throat, and wondered at how hard it was. God it was hard. _Why was it so hard?_   
  
"I didn't want it to be like this," she forced the words out, her voice barely above a whisper, and he must have heard something of the sincerity she felt, because she could feel it as he looked away from her. Silently, he returned to picking up the pieces, and she stood there for a moment longer, lost in thoughts of past and present, filled with the stale hope of dreams never realized.   
  
At last she turned away, moving slowly toward the register. She laid her hands down on the customers' side of the wooden counter, staring down at her fingers, fingers that had betrayed, fingers that had wounded and committed murder, and wondered if there were a point to any of this. She would never belong here.   
  
She didn't move, eyes remaining unfocused and unseeing on her slender digits, even when she felt Spike come up beside her. "They'll never accept you," he confided, glib as he glanced over to where Xander knelt, gathering up the scattered shreds of Buffy's memory. "Believe me, I know. Bloody wankers never—" he broke off, as if realizing the implications of what he'd said. "Oh, bloody hell!" He looked heavenward in exasperation. "Might as well get matching outfits. Demon girl was right. We're like the sodding Bobbsey Twins."  
  
"Who?" Faith frowned at him in confusion.  
  
Briefly, Spike considered death as a preferable alternative, then heaved a resigned sigh.  
  
"Want to make a sweep of the sewers?" he asked her instead.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"So this Cherry chick, she's evil?" Faith asked, cutting Spike a casual sideways glance as they made their way through the echoing sewer tunnels.  
  
"Well, I suppose, by your definition," Spike allowed with a noncommittal shrug, his duster rustling with the movement, the whisper of soft leather on soft leather. "She's a succubus." Off Faith's blank look he explained, impatient, as if she ought to have known exactly what he meant, "Seduces men, kills them in the throes of passion?"  
  
"Wow." Faith tucked her chin, upper body straightening and jolting with surprise, dark eyes wide and impressed. "Must be a real kick, seducing men then killing them while they're getting off."  
  
Spike paused in his step and cut her an amazed sideways look, hardly believing the admiration he heard in her voice.  
  
"Well," she blinked, seeming to catch herself. She lifted her shoulders in a shrug that was just a little too casual. "Not that that makes it right. But still, what a charge."  
  
"Got more than a bit of evil in your heart, don't you?" he asked with an indulgent smirk. When she turned, eyes hot and ready to defend herself, he shrugged. "A Slayer needs a bit of darkness." He said it with such practicality that for a moment she was left speechless, pondering the implications.  
  
She shifted her posture away and shrugged, uttering a cynical laugh. "Of course _you_ would say that. I mean, vampire; evil, hello?"  
  
"And where exactly do you think you get _your_ power, luv?" He stopped walking, eerie shuffle of footsteps ceasing, and turned to look at her.  
  
She shifted and shrank from his naked gaze, hating the scrutiny and the glint of mocking laughter that was always present in his eyes. She hated even more the intensity of his presence, how unnerved she always felt when he was near her, when he focused on her… and hated most of all that in some sick, twisted way, she still found his presence comforting somehow. "What do you mean?" she flung back at him hotly, managing to salvage a shred of posture.  
  
"I mean, where do you think a Slayer's power bloody comes from?" He advanced on her a step, all belligerence and annoyed impatience, and yet his expression was serious, almost studious, tainted by the shadows that blackened his knowledge and his heart. "You have the power to fight and kill. Maybe you use it to destroy things that're evil, but any power steeped in death has to come with a little bit of darkness. It's part of the package, luv. And any Slayer that can't handle that darkness in her soul is going to find herself in a spot of trouble real quick."  
  
She put her hands on her hips and rose in height to meet him, eyes defiant as he swung his flashlight on her. "So you're telling me your beloved Buffy had darkness on her bright, shiny puritan soul?"  
  
He flinched as if she had hit him, drawing away just a fraction from her. "Yeah," he said quietly, his voice unsteady. "Yeah, she did."  
  
She took in the exposed sorrow in his eyes, so stripped of all his posturing and attitude now, and she felt the guilt, the sadness rising up in her again. There was something almost angelic about him, something soft and vulnerable and very child-like when he talked about Buffy; from the clear, blue depths of his eyes to the hollow angles of his cheekbones, he became suddenly, exquisitely beautiful, exotic and fragile. When he looked like that he almost made her heart want to break for the pain of feeling his, and she wondered how anyone she loathed so deeply could touch her so truly.  
  
Uncomfortable with her thoughts and the proximity of his naked emotion, she cleared her throat and looked away, not wanting to see him anymore.  
  
"Maybe we should split up. Cover more ground. See if we can find any traces."  
  
"Right."  
  
She took a step back and half-turned away, shining her flashlight over the expanse of tunnels, illuminating all the darkened halls that branched off like black, malignant veins from the one they stood in. "I mean, they've got to be down here somewhere, right? Only a matter of time." She shrugged, feeling her confidence return with the little speech, and turned back toward him, eager to push on with their mission and leave this little moment of intimacy behind.  
  
But Spike was already gone.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
_  
Elsewhere…  
_  
_It is dark here, and musty. Silent and sealed away from the world, the fevered thought flickers through her mind that she is dead, and she has been sealed at last in her tomb. The thought brings profound relief for a brief instant, and then her body touches the boundaries of her tiny prison as she stretches, climbing the last painful inches to awareness and she breathes deep, exhaling a ragged sigh. Thankfully, the scent of her own unwashed body no longer troubles her olfactory senses; they have grown mercifully accustomed to the stench.  
  
The flexing of stiffened limbs, lithe muscles moving beneath the skin, sapped of strength now and will to move. Slow rhythm of a heartbeat, dull pounding through her fragile form that tells her she is still alive. Dry swallow of a parched throat, pain like stinging needles in her arms, a low, deep down weakness that shimmers on the border of delirium; this is her world now., devoid of light, and thought, and feeling. She remembers that there was bright panic once, a driving need to escape, to flee her own skin. And before that, long before that, there were voices, and kindness, and warmth. She remembers those things only vaguely though, like fever dreams of another life, and even they have gone now.  
  
She can no longer remember how she got here.  
  
She doesn't know who she is.  
  
Eyes flutter shut, their shading no different than the blackness of her prison, and she slides back into unconsciousness on fiery tendrils of pain.  
_  
  



	5. Mortal Ground 2 Chapter 5: Liaisons

CHAPTER 5: LIAISONS  
  
  
______________________________________________  
  
Faith hauled herself up out the grimy sewer hole with a resigned sigh, flinching only slightly as her ribs whispered in pain. Over the last day or so they had departed severe pain in favor of itching, only complaining when she stretched her body too far or put too much stress on them. Not too shabby for a week or so worth of healing. In another two weeks, they'd probably be healed as completely as if they'd never been broken. Sometimes, being a Slayer had its perks.   
  
If only everything could be mended so easily.  
  
She'd waited what seemed like hours for Spike to come back, the irony not lost on her that his presence would have made her feel much braver about a return to the Scoobies. His bravado and arrogance would have bolstered her own, and if nothing else he would have challenged her about going back until she did it just to prove that she could. So she'd meandered about the tunnels, searching down corridors she'd already scoured earlier until finally she couldn't pretend anymore that she wasn't waiting for him. It was ridiculous, but with him around, she at least felt like she had someone on her side; someone who didn't hate her for being a back-stabbing murderer.  
  
No. He hated her for being herself.  
  
And in her twisted, Bizarro-world corner of the universe, that was somehow _better_.  
  
What a fucking world, huh?  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
It was late in the evening when Faith returned to the Magic Box, alone and empty handed among the dim street lamps of the city block. Her dark eyes darted hesitantly toward the darkened shop front, and her footsteps faltered with uncertainty as she approached. She paused outside the store entrance, catching sight of a lone overhead light that burned deep within, illuminating piles of books upon the circular table that stood beyond the bookshelves. Frowning, she squinted through the crystal-clear glass kept so spotless by Anya's industrious toiling, and determined that everyone seemed to have gone home for the night. Nothing moved in her line of vision, and she found herself both relieved and disappointed by the discovery.  
  
Dawn's hatred, Willow's anger, Xander's disdain. There was nothing for her inside that shop.  
  
The thought came to her with sudden clarity, and suddenly all the arguments she'd put up in favor of remaining there ceased to have meaning. It simply didn't matter; what she wanted, or what she did. _Once a thing is done, it cannot usually be undone with ease… where had she heard that? Didn't matter, it amounted to the same thing: some things you just couldn't take back, no matter how much you wanted to. She'd tried telling Angel that, once, but he hadn't wanted to believe her. Angel and his lofty ideals, his pain that he embraced as a compass… she would have gladly traded a few more broken ribs to hear him utter one of his platitudes right now. He was better than her, that way. He had more hope in him. He could have stayed, stuck this out, walked right back in there and taken his lumps like he deserved them. But she just couldn't see the point. It wouldn't change anything.  
  
She didn't know why she'd come here, didn't want to be here. And she decided to pass the store by, keep walking, scavenge for some dinner and maybe get a good night's sleep for a change.  
  
But her eyes lingered on the warmth of luminescence that radiated from inside the darkened shop, and she found that it tugged at her heart far more sharply than it should have. Once, a moment and a lifetime ago, she'd wanted nothing more than to be in that light, to be surrounded by those people and encircled by their love and respect. Once, it had even seemed possible. But it had been a delusion, a false dream built on tattered hope and a lifetime of despair. Really, it was no wonder that the structure she'd tried to build had crumbled, given that its foundation was rotten through to the moorings with years of resentment and hatred. It was no wonder that she'd failed.  
  
Did she really stand a better chance now?  
  
Her face grew long with memory and brittle with self-derision as she shoved her hands deep into her pockets and turned away. The Sunnydale street stretched out before her, barren and forlorn, empty of promise or hope. It had been stupid to think she could come here again and make it right. Stupid to think she could be forgiven, that she could be anything else but what she was.  
  
She turned her back on the shop and closed her heart, and knew that she would never see it, or them, ever again.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Her heart leapt in her chest as she heard the faint jingle of the shop doorbell behind her.  
  
"Faith?" It was Giles' voice, so mild and uncertain.   
  
His voice flew through the still night air and lassoed her, tightening around a cluster of nerves in her stomach and squeezing, drawing her up short. She closed her eyes briefly and paused a moment to admire the ironic timing. Her mouth twisted in a bitter smile and she took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and turned on her heels to face him.  
  
"Yeah," she hedged, her voice taking on its usual cocky edge. "I was just… heading home for the night." She shrugged a shoulder vaguely in the direction of the empty street behind her.  
  
His eyes flickered momentarily in the direction she indicated. "I… see," he remarked slowly, not quite looking at her as he leaned out against the door, and she was struck by the thought that maybe he _did_ see. That he could see all the way through her like she was nothing but a ghost, and she hated it. Hated herself for wanting to run, hated him for being able to see it.  
  
"Yeah." She swallowed and the bitter feeling went with it, fleeing like the tide, rolling back to expose the white bone of fragile seashells beneath. She felt frail, brittle, as if one more word from him might shatter her like glass, let her soul spill out on the ground. He might suspect her intent, but he wasn't going to try to stop her, she sensed that. And somehow, that was the hardest blow to bear. "So…" She took another step backward and started to turn.  
  
"It was unfortunate, what happened with Dawn."  
  
She paused in mid-turn, eyes slowly rising up to meet his.   
  
"But to be expected perhaps, given the circumstances." He watched her carefully for her reaction.  
  
Her own eyes hardened in turn, bristling at the implications, and she stiffened, standing up straight as if to brace against the impact of his words. "Yeah, I pretty much got that everyone thought I deserved it," she spat.  
  
"That's not what I meant," he said, intensely sincere, and yet his voice lacked warmth or comfort. There was a look in his eye that she couldn't identify, the summation of so many emotions visible in the deep blue of his irises that she could not decipher a single one. She could only tell that he looked at her with sincerity, and seemed to take in the measure of her, as if weighing her on the fragile scales of justice in his mind. "No one said this would be easy, Faith. You've made mistakes in your past and you're going to have to face them."  
  
"And what do I do when my 'mistakes' decide they're mad as hell and they're not gonna take it anymore? What about when they decide to take me out?" The words flew from her like tiny knives, sharp with exasperation and rage.  
  
He gave her a reluctant, distantly sad look, and tilted his head toward his shoulder in an implied shrug that did nothing to lessen the matter-of-fact tone in his voice. "You do the best you can."  
  
"Funny, you make it _sound_ easy," she snapped, eyes flashing, temper flaring.  
  
"It isn't," he agreed. "But anything worth doing seldom is." He met her eyes intently and held them, as if he were offering her some sort of divine wisdom, some kind of… choice?  
  
And again she was robbed of the armor of her anger, the wind ripped from her sails as surely as a ship that has entered the eye of the storm. "Why are you being so nice to me, Giles?" she asked, her agitation growing, and she nearly cringed as she heard a desperate note enter her voice, betraying her emotions. She flung her hair back over her shoulder with a violent twist of her neck and angrily wrenched her gaze from him. "It's not like any of you actually want me here, so why are you going all Legend of Kung-Fu on me?"  
  
"Do you think you're special, Faith?" he asked, eyes narrowing as he advanced a step toward her. "Do you believe that you are the only one ever to commit a terrible, unforgivable act?" He let the question hang there for an instant between them, filled with sarcasm, ringing with challenge. "Well you're not, I can assure you. I don't excuse what you've done, but I won't persecute you for it. I want to _help_ you."  
  
She didn't respond to that right away, averting her eyes. She wanted to believe him, wanted it so badly… but she couldn't. She didn't deserve his mercy, didn't deserve his kindness or compassion. "Why?" she asked, her voice weak.  
  
"For the same reason that you came here in the first place."  
  
The corner of her mouth twisted up in a crooked smile as she absorbed that, and she felt her tired, cynical feet come back under her. "Yeah? And what's that?" she asked, voice laced with dry wit, and her eyes rose to meet his in challenge.  
  
He met her gaze without flinching. "Because it's the right thing to do," he answered emphatically.  
  
She tucked her tongue against the side of her mouth and looked down with a faint, bitter smile and shook her head. She should have expected him to say something like that. She'd been wrong to think he'd just let her walk away without trying.  
  
_--because it's wrong!--  
_  
"You sound like Buffy."  
  
He was silent, and for a moment she wondered if it had been the wrong thing to say. "She was a good teacher," he admitted at length, his voice almost reverent.  
  
And she found herself nodding her head slowly, quietly surprised as the realization dawned on her. "Yeah," she agreed quietly. "I guess she was."  
  
He smiled as well, caught for a moment in memory, and they stood amidst a not quite awkward silence, the mood between them softened and changed in that instant. Each felt the other relax just a bit, and there was been a sense of letting go, of moving on past the issues and invisible barriers between them.   
  
He shifted within the dark sweater he wore, glancing down self-consciously at the navy striped sleeves. "There are, ah, a few things I wanted to go over with you." And then, as if he somehow implicitly understood her hunger without being told, he added, "I believe there might still be some pizza left over from earlier." There was a question lurking just behind the change of subject, and she suspected he understood all too well how she'd been feeling before he'd opened the door. He was letting her know, with the smallest and most comfortable of gestures, that she was still welcome there, with him. And yet he was still offering her a choice. She knew she could turn away if she wanted, and he would let her go.  
  
The moment of choosing hung between them like a pendulum, waiting for the slightest push to begin its destructive arc. She hesitated—a heartbeat, two—then drew herself up with a slant of her shoulders. "You Watchers. Always burning the midnight oil. Don't you ever get bored?"  
  
The moment passed, her decision made clear by her choice of words and the casual teasing of her tone. Giles shifted back toward the store, body relaxing as he fell into the more comfortable rhythm of conversation. "The books do get tiresome at times," he allowed with a faint smile and then shrugged one shoulder. "But there's always a spot of inventory to liven things up."  
  
"You're a real wild man, Giles," she proclaimed with a chuckle, and felt the tension dissolve completely. There was an ease to the air between them that bordered on friendship, but didn't quite pass the threshold. Still, it was closer to a welcoming hand given freely than she'd had in a long time. She uncrossed her arms, let them fall to her sides and stepped forward with a grin.  
  
He moved back and pushed the door open wide, allowing her to enter the store first. "Yes, but don't tell anyone. I have a stodgy reputation to uphold."  
  
"Your secret's safe with me," she promised with a wry grin, drawing an "x" over her heart before she turned and stepped inside the doorway. He moved to follow her and she glanced back over her shoulder curiously. "Tell me the truth though. You guys practice those 'good-guy inspirational speeches' in the mirror, don't you?"  
  
He gave her an enigmatic smile and stepped inside, closing the door behind them.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Willow grimaced and shifted her position at the table, trying to maneuver the nearby bookshelf between her eyes and the late afternoon sun that shone with blinding cheer through the front windows of the shop. She felt neither bright nor cheerful and was not much in the mood for anything that was.  
  
Giles was speaking as he rounded the table, speculating aloud about the restoration ritual in a way that she normally would have found quite cute and endearing. But today she hardly heard him, could hardly stand to watch or listen. Every time she looked at him, all she could see was the stern disapproval he had looked at her with yesterday.  
  
_"Giles," she had said again, trying to cut off his angry litany. "I didn't know she would use what I taught her to try and cast a vengeance spell like that."  
  
He'd been livid again. "Willow… it's magic. By its very nature it is dangerous. You can't simply go around just passing out its secrets to anyone. Especially someone as young and impressionable as Dawn."  
  
"It wouldn't have worked," Willow had offered, meek and hopeful.  
  
"That hardly matters. She could have caused something far worse to happen, to herself, or even to one of us. And if she'd succeeded with Faith—"  
  
We could throw a party? Willow had thought, but dared not say. "Giles," she'd interrupted hastily. "I know." She'd ducked her head and squirmed lower in her chair, the very picture of misery and chagrin. "I'm sorry." And she had been. She should have known better. "It's just… after Joyce… and then Buffy… Dawn was so sad, so lost. I thought… maybe if I showed her some stuff she might feel better. It felt like I was doing something to help, you know?" She'd given him a look that pleaded understanding.  
  
He'd leaned back against the vaulting horse and set his jaw, gazing intensely at nothing. When he finally spoke, his voice had been reluctantly forgiving, and she'd known he was still angry. "I suppose there's nothing to be done for it now. Let's just… try to show better judgment in the future, shall we?"  
_  
Again, she'd tried to help someone, to make things better, and again she'd gotten nothing but trouble for it. The thought dug at her with fiery, prying claws, peeling back years of shy repression like the layers of an onion. Instinctively she sought to stop it, not wanting to lay the center bare, afraid of what might be revealed. But she couldn't seem to help herself. It was like being caught in a feedback loop. She tried, she really _tried_ to understand the feelings of everyone around her, but why couldn't they see that she was only doing what was _right_?  
  
She cast a worried, sidelong glance at Tara, and found her lover's features captured in golden sunlight, oblivious to Willow's uncertainty.  
  
She snapped from the trance of her thoughts as Tara unexpectedly spoke up, tilting her blond head at Giles in confusion. "They're paying her?"  
  
"What?" Willow blurted, turning to look at him as well.  
  
"Yes. The Council has apparently decided that it's far past time to change the rules governing the Slayer's compensation."  
  
"There were rules?" Xander asked, looking just as lost as Willow felt.  
  
"In earlier times, the Slayer was worshipped, revered and cared for by her people. She had no need for an income. Even as recently as the 1800's it is recorded that tribe, community, King, or Queen cared for the Slayer. It's only been in the 19th and 20th centuries that people have stopped believing in creatures of the night. People today are hardly superstitious at all." Giles raised his brows, sounding baffled and mildly offended by his own assessment. "They would never believe in a Slayer, except perhaps in third world countries, where they likely couldn't provide for her, anyway."  
  
"Yeah," Xander agreed wryly. "Maybe they should have changed the books on that around the same time that 'secret identity' entered the picture."  
  
"They're going to pay _Faith_?" Willow asked in astonishment, finally catching on.  
  
"Well, nothing substantial. But enough to cover food, living expenses and such, yes."  
  
"But… they never paid Buffy!" she argued, finding it somehow unfair.  
  
Giles put his hands in his pockets and nodded, shrugging lightly. "Buffy never negotiated for money. She never really had a need to. She…" he forced himself to say the word, "died before the need arose."  
  
"Faith _should_ get paid," Anya observed, sensible as ever. "Besides, if she doesn't, we'll all have to support her."  
  
The Scoobies exchanged glances and raised brows, then as one, shrugged and nodded in agreement.  
  
"Good point," Xander noted.  
  
"I think it for the best," Giles agreed. "Part of the reason the Council was prompted to change the rule is because Faith has no alternatives. They don't want to give her any reason to go looking for outside help."  
  
"Oh, you mean like turning evil and trying to kill us all again?" Xander asked snidely.  
  
"Xander…" Giles faltered, as if considering what he was about to say. "Let's give it a rest, shall we?"  
  
"Is there any reason we should, Giles?" Willow asked, her face pinched in a disapproving frown.  
  
"Yes." He looked impatient, as if he didn't understand the need for the question. "We have to work together, and I don't believe the constant… sniping at each other will help. Besides, Faith _has_ made an effort to cooperate with us. I think she deserves a chance," he said with a shrug that showed he thought his opinion was simple common sense.  
  
Everyone glanced away, not willing to argue. Willow bit her lip and looked resigned. Xander looked down at the table, fidgeting, the way he often did, and he at least, seemed as if he understood Giles' sentiment. Tara only looked to Willow to note her reaction, then glanced away, seeming troubled by what she saw in her lover's face.  
  
Anya seemed fascinated as she watched everyone else's reactions, having none in particular of her own. "I kind of like her," she said in such an offhand manner that Giles had to smile. Everyone else looked at her in surprise and she went on, unperturbed, amending her statement slightly. "Except for the swaggering and the attitude. And well, Dawn casting spells at her in my store."  
  
Giles shot her an offended look.  
  
"Our store," she amended, rolling her eyes.   
  
"You _like_ her?" Xander asked in disbelief.  
  
Anya lifted her chin, looking slightly defensive as she answered. "She likes my honesty. Even you get annoyed by it sometimes."  
  
Xander glanced away and ran his hands through his hair with a look that said__ 'oh, this is ALL I need'. "And, uh, where __is Faith, anyway?" he asked, as much to change the subject as out of curiosity.  
  
"I sent her and Spike down to do another search of the sewer tunnels," Giles answered.  
  
Xander looked at him, surprised. "Not to sound like negativity guy here, Giles, but don't you think that's asking for trouble, pairing the two of them together?"  
  
"They seem to get along ah, very well when they're not bickering. I suspect they have a lot in common."  
  
"Gee, could it be the cold-blooded killer vibe?" Xander asked sarcastically. Off Giles' look, he held up his hands. "Just saying. We should think about that. I mean, give them too much time together and they're liable to go all Mickey and Mallory on us."  
  
"They'd have to be madly in love to do that," Anya interjected.  
  
"Oh, hey, _there's_ a thought. Maybe they'll start dating," Xander observed with a touch of panic. Then he paused, appearing to re-think that. "I can't decide which would be worse. Having to watch them make out or having them kill me slowly and painfully?"  
  
Everyone looked at each other, seeming appalled by the idea.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith froze outside the tunnel entrance, body poised and still, lithe muscles corded with the feline grace of a predator stalking prey; head tilted, eyes narrowed to slits, ears straining carefully for the faintest sound. Something had moved around the corner, something with a light, preying footstep… something that didn't want to be heard. She clicked off her flashlight, hardly daring to breathe, and backed quietly to the wall, feet silent as a cat's, waiting.  
  
Moments passed and no other sound reached her ears, but she'd been down here too often in the last few days, had become too used to hunting in these echoing tunnels to simply ignore her instincts. Her blood pumped with sudden energy, fairly singing with the promise of a fight, and for just an instant, the world fell away and she was focused, complete, whole. This was what she was made for, her calling, and there was still enough of her cynical detachment left to appreciate the fact that her calling basically amounted to kicking a whole lot of ass. She smirked in the darkness, and when the humanoid figure rounded the corner, her fist lashed out seemingly of its own accord, instincts meeting power and carrying out their combined mission.  
  
"Bloody hell!" the shadowed form snarled, dodging backward so that her fist connected with its jaw with much less impact than she'd intended.  
  
Tension eased from her muscles as she recognized the voice and was replaced with the usual annoyance she felt whenever she heard it.  
  
"Spike," she bit off the name in clipped tones that spoke of ebbing adrenaline and flipped her flashlight back on, swinging it at him accusingly.  
  
"A bit off your game, Slayer?" he taunted, coming forward into the beam of her light with his patented smirk intact as always, despite the swelling along the bone of his jaw line. He touched two fingers to the damaged area and gave her an appraising look that bordered on mock-accusation. "Nice shot."  
  
"You deserved it," she snapped, and he considered that a moment, then shrugged in agreement. "And I thought Angel was bad about lurking," she muttered, still annoyed.  
  
"Great poofter's got nothing on me," Spike said proudly, drawing himself up. "Well, 'cept for 70 pounds 'round his middle," he amended with a mean little grin.  
  
She gave a tired sigh and shifted her posture, trying to give her ribs some relief. She hadn't slept well again last night; her ribs had begun to itch again, and though when she'd left the Magic Box she was as exhausted as she'd been for the last week or so, sleep had dangled tauntingly outside her reach for much of the night. What little she had managed had been shallow, nightmarish, and left her more annoyed than refreshed. She was bone-weary, soul-tired, so stretched and thin that she hardly even felt like herself anymore. She knew Spike was taunting her, but she really didn't feel like defending Angel right now.  
  
"Find anything?" she asked instead.  
  
"Like hell!" Spike countered, scowling automatically. "You—" He broke off, confused as he realized that she hadn't insulted him, which seemed to make him even more suspicious. "You feeling all right, Slayer?"  
  
"Answer the question, Spike. You _can_ do that, right?"  
  
He gave her a look that she couldn't quite decipher, then glanced away, scanning the entirety of the tunnel they stood in, shrugging. "Nothing 'round here. If the Hell Patrol's setting up shop down here, they're deeper in."  
  
Faith sighed and ran a hand through her hair, frustration skating down her nerves on razor blades. "This is useless. We've been looking down here for days." She gritted her teeth and sighed, flexing her fists restlessly. She wasn't good at the lurking around and waiting routine, and the longer they went without encountering anything, the edgier she felt. If she could just hit something… she cut her eyes toward Spike with a sidelong grin. "You know, if I don't find a good fight soon, I might have to kick your ass just for fun."  
  
"Want to give it a go?" he asked with a smirk, seeming amiable to the idea in that faintly threatening, cocky way he had about him.  
  
"I'd _so_ win," she countered with superior arrogance, putting a hand on her hip and shooting him a devilish grin. She debated the matter seriously for a few seconds, then glanced around and shook her head. "But I say we take it to the streets a while. See if we find any of them lurking around up there."  
  
"Fine by me," he shrugged. "Could do with a spot of violence, myself. Don't think we're going to have any better luck though."  
  
She shot him an annoyed look, irritated by the fact that he was probably right—hell, he was almost _always_ right—then moved toward one of the ladders to the surface, gripping a grimy rung tight in her hand. "Yeah," she agreed, disgruntled. "Giles thinks they've gone into hiding since getting the scroll. Maybe preparing for the big ritual… whatever it is."  
  
"So, no new news, then?"  
  
She shook her head and pushed off from the ground, mounting the ladder and pulling herself up with a twist of graceful limbs. "Zip."  
  
Spike glanced up at her as she moved and unconsciously tilted his head, neck craning to the side to take in the contours of her body as she climbed, admiring the curvature and sinewy muscle that managed to be both soft and deadly at the same time. He caught himself watching as she reached the top and shoved open the manhole cover, turning to look at him with impatient expectation.   
  
"You coming or what?"  
  
Snapping out of it, he shook his head, blinked in surprise and scowled at her for good measure, wondering just what the hell had been going through his mind.  
  
"Just waiting for you to get out of my way."  
  
She rolled her eyes, flipped him off and climbed the last rung up, disappearing through the hole that peered up into the stars.  
  
"Wanker," he chided himself beneath his breath, then mounted the ladder rungs.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
After the third graveyard sweep with no activity, Faith was practically chomping at the bit.  
  
"You really _are_ about to pop, aren't you?" Spike asked her, bemused.  
  
She shoved her stake in the back of her jeans so angrily that he thought she might split them down the middle, and regarded him contemplatively. The dark fire in her eyes seemed to debate giving him a run for his money like she'd threatened to do earlier. Then, mercurial as ever, the abrasive posture slipped from her slight form and she relaxed, putting a hand on her hip and giving him a solicitous grin.  
  
"You up for making some action of our own?" she asked suggestively, arching a dark brow at him.  
  
"Why Slayer." He managed to sound sarcastic, shocked and unimpressed all at once as he mocked her. "You propositioning me?" He didn't know whether she was going to try to hit him or fuck him, but he was, in general, pretty well prepared for either course of action when it came to women.  
  
She sauntered up to him, still grinning, and lifted one hand to his cheek, patting his face rather too roughly. "Oh yeah," she agreed, and her flirtatious air took on a dangerous tone. "Think you can keep up?"  
  
"Think you can get ahead of me?" he countered.  
  
She tilted her head to the side, looking at him with eyes that glittered mischievously, then let her hand slide from his face and glided past him.  
  
"How do you feel about tequila?" she called back over her shoulder with a roguish grin.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
An hour later they sat facing each other over a bottle of Cuervo Gold, several empty shot glasses lined up in front of each of them like rows of tiny soldiers. Around them, music thumped and blared in catchy, house techno beats, and lights flashed in a rainbow of myriad color in time with the rhythm, spraying over the writhing dance floor in shafts of crimson, sapphire, emerald and violet. Faith cast an appraising look toward the undulating crowd and tossed her hair back over her shoulder in a cascade of golden light as one of the strobes passed over her in a wild arc.  
  
"I always did like this place," she said, voice rich with satisfaction, like a cat curled up in a sunlit window. This place was like home to her; she always felt she was in her element when surrounded by music and chaos. It gave her a sense of being free that went far beyond physical. You could lose yourself under those lights, be anyone you wanted.  
  
Spike gave an indifferent shrug, hardly glancing up at her as he poured himself another shot. "It'll do."  
  
They were secluded in a corner far enough away from the dance floor and music to be able to talk without shouting, but still close enough to admire the shifting waves of chaos that spilled over the dance floor in rainbow hues of flesh.  
  
She gave him a brief, scouring look, then grinned and leaned across the table in a spill of dark hair to grab the tequila bottle. Hardly taking her eyes from him, she poured another shot for herself and then sat the bottle on the table beside her with a decisive thump. "Ready?" she asked, and the glint in her eyes reminded him of the feeling he used to get right before he fed.  
  
He gave another shrug and lifted the shot glass, considering the amber liquid as he turned it between his fingers. "I do hope you're not going to try and keep up with me all night. I don't fancy the idea of carrying you home."  
  
She rolled her eyes. "Are you always this much fun? Because I think I saw some Mormons outside that might be more entertaining."  
  
He gave a snort of laughter and slyly nodded his head at her, platinum hair momentarily haloed in orange as the lights flickered by behind him. "Right, then. Don't say I didn't warn you."  
  
"I'll be sure to have them carve it in my headstone: 'Spike warned me'," she agreed archly. "So you in, or what?" She lifted her shot glass with an impish grin, clearly having too good of a time to let him annoy her.  
  
"To mutual hatred," he said, toasting the shot glass toward her before tossing it down in a single gulp.  
  
"Whatever," she agreed, then shrugged and gulped down her own shot.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Some time later, Spike set down another shot glass and sprawled back in his chair, and gave Faith an imperious look that did not so much slide down his nose as it swaggered. "So how did the drama with the Bit play out the other day?" he asked, raising a curious brow.  
  
"The _Bit_? And you give __me a hard time for not calling people by their name?" She shook her head, rueful, then gave a brief chuckle and shrugged. "It was… fine."  
  
"Fine?" His other brow rose to join the first and his eyes fixed her with a penetrating look that was solidly backed by disbelief. None of the other muscles in his face moved, and she had to give him credit; he was a master of expression. She doubted there were enough words in the English language to convey the depth and range of his expressions. __Had to be a British thing.  
  
"Yeah. You know. Scoobilicious," she added with whimsical impatience.  
  
"So everything's just peachy, then?" Spike asked, voice flat, clearly not believing a word. "You went back to the shop and Dawn and Willow grabbed you up in a group hug and sang a round of Auld Lang Syne?"   
  
"Not exactly. But it all came out five by five in the end." She tossed her head and dismissed the subject. "Anyway, I thought we were here to drink?" she added, upping the challenge with the insinuation that he might be trying to distract her.  
  
He gave an indifferent shrug then picked up the half-empty bottle with the intent of filling his glass. "Not much of a talker, are you?"  
  
"What can I say? I'm pretty much a _doer_," she replied with a suggestive wink. She flashed him a smile that while charming, nevertheless hinted that the viewer should interpret it with caution.  
  
"You ready, then?" he asked, and the tone was a casual, but the meaning was unmistakable this time. He really meant to see if she could keep up with him.   
  
A beam of magenta light skewered the tequila bottle for a split second before passing on, and she grinned. "Bring it on, blondie." She lifted a hand to motion him toward her as she spoke, and jutted her chin out at him to complete the picture of cocky acceptance.  
  
"Hope that new allowance the Council of Wankers is giving you can afford all this," he remarked, pouring for both of them.  
  
"I got it covered," she said with a breezy motion of her head. "Besides, Giles said I should take some downtime while the vamps are laying low."  
  
He gave a cynical snort and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply as he stared her down. "Wonder how many Slayers spend their 'downtime' doing tequila shots with a vampire?"  
  
"Hey, I'm of age. Long as I do their bidding and co-operate, I figure I can spend my petty cash on crack and whores if I want to." She shrugged, nonplussed.  
  
He blinked, then laughed aloud, half toasting her before he tossed back his shot. "You're a real piece of work, Slayer," he admitted with grudging admiration.  
  
She grinned almost invitingly, a promise of greater things to come. "You ain't heard nothin' yet…"  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *   
  
"And so I told B, 'It's simple: want, take, have' and she kinda grins and turns around, puts her fist through the glass and grabs this dagger out like a trophy, gives me this hungry look that sends shivers down my spine, and says 'want, take, have. I think I'm getting it'."  
  
"Did not," Spike contradicted, only half-disbelieving.  
  
"Swear," Faith said with a chuckle, holding up her left hand, then leaned clumsily over the table, reaching for the tequila bottle.  
  
"_Buffy_ broke into a place and stole something? And _liked_ it?" His dark brows rose high above his eyes like exclamation points, and his expression told her he was clearly having trouble envisioning it.  
  
"I know. Boggles the mind, huh?" She poured herself another shot, then leaned over the table again, filling up one of the shot glasses in front of Spike.   
  
He gave a grudging smile and shook his head once as he watched her. "You're nothing like her." He said it quietly, and she almost had to strain to hear him.  
  
Through the pleasant haze clouding her mind, she puzzled out what he meant. "Who? Buffy?" There was enough bitterness left over to taint her voice, but for once she didn't shoot it at him like a venomous arrow. She felt almost… generous. Pleasantly warm and satisfied. "No, B was more of a vanilla ice-cream and nice guys kinda girl."  
  
Spike lounged back in his chair, looking thoughtful, and nodded. "She cared about you, though. I always got that. Never understood it, but I got it. I figured it must have been the Slayer bond, brought you two together."  
  
"More like 'made us want to kill each other'," she countered, bitterness welling closer to the surface.  
  
"_I_ used to want to kill her. Doesn't mean I didn't love her." He shrugged matter-of-factly.  
  
"You know, I don't want to come off holier than thou or anything, but you're aware you've got some serious emotional issues going on there, right?"  
  
"You know," his brows rose in surprise and he gaze fell on her somewhere between appreciative and amazed. "I think you're right. Tell me how __you did it. I mean," he leaned closer to her, lowering his voice, completely focused on her. "When did you fall in love with Angel, exactly? Before the first time you tried to kill him? Or was it after? Or was it sometime during the _second_ time you tried to kill him?"  
  
"Gee, maybe we can get therapy together," she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm. "Or maybe that theory doesn't always work, because I usually want to kill _you_ and I _definitely_ don't love you."  
  
He gave a mild chuckle and fixed her with a pointed look, matching her sarcasm. "And the coincidences just keep piling up."  
  
"You were talking about Buffy," she reminded him, directing him roughly to a much more desirable topic of conversation.  
  
It took him a moment to switch gears, but he managed. She saw the soft, far away look that always entered his eyes when he thought about Buffy and knew her ploy to distract him from talking about Angel had worked. Plus, she was kind of curious to see what he had to say about her and Buffy. She'd never gotten an outside perspective on the happier points of their relationship.  
  
"Yeah. I remember now where I saw you before, how I knew you two were chummy rivals even before I figured who you were. Could see it the way you two looked at each other, how you held yourselves," he said, mind seeming elsewhere even as he looked at her. When she frowned at him curiously, he explained. "Saw a picture of you two, once. In Buffy's room."  
  
"B had a picture of me in her room?" she asked, genuinely surprised, thoughts of a moment before scattered and forgotten in the wake of this new information.  
  
"In one of her drawers," he said in a distant, thoughtful voice. So vivid; the memory of silk whispering through his fingers, the smell of some flowery but achingly sweet sachet, flash of golden hair and sea foam eyes. Then he snapped back to the moment, eyes focusing on her intently.  
  
"Drawers? Were you stealing her underwear or what?" she asked with a laugh.  
  
Despite himself, he was mildly annoyed by the accuracy of her jibe, and he looked at her with a challenging expression that said __'Yeah. What else?'.  
  
"Wow. You really _are_ a perv." She chuckled. "You know, I kinda like that about you." She leaned forward earnestly, her dark eyes intent as a thought struck her. "Did she… you know. Was she into you? I mean, B always did have that vampire lust thing going on."  
  
A laugh escaped him, unbidden, and he looked away, cynical and bemused. "Not bloody likely. Wasn't enough of a 'nice guy' for her." His fingers fell to the table and he eyed the state of his chipped black fingernail polish as he went on more thoughtfully, "But she treated me like I mattered."  
  
"Yeah, she had a way of doing that."  
  
"None of the others ever treated me like I was worth anything, but she…"  
  
"I know exactly what you—" she trailed off, and their eyes met in realization.  
  
"Another thing we've got in common," Faith noted, irritated.  
  
"Oh, yay." Spike rolled his eyes.  
  
"You know, we get along a hell of a lot better when we're drunk," she observed.  
  
"Speak for yourself," he contradicted, annoyed. "I'm not even close to drunk and I _still_ don't like you." He sounded almost petulant.  
  
"Well, we should probably fix that. The drunk part, I mean," she amended quickly and picked up the bottle. "Damn. Empty." She shook the bottle for dramatic effect before she slammed it back down on the table.  
  
"You want another?" Spike asked, arching a challenging brow at her.  
  
She met his eyes with a hungry grin. "Are you kidding?"  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"…and I said 'Sorry, luv. I don't speak Chinese.'"  
  
"_That's_ wicked evil," Faith declared with an appreciative nod as she reached across the table for the bottle. Nearly overbalancing, she caught herself against the edge of the table and pealed almost girlish laughter at her own clumsiness, tossing back her dark hair in a shimmering sea of color beneath the kaleidoscope lights.  
  
"Thanks," Spike accepted the compliment with a grin of his own and leaned to snatch the bottle from her unsuccessful grasp. He turned the bottle up and poured into his shot glass, spilling a good portion on the lacquered tabletop before doing the same with Faith's.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"Yer beneath me, she said." Spike leaned drunkenly over the table, head lolling over his folded arms, the table top the only thing keeping him from falling to the floor. A cigarette burned down to the filter between his fingers, forlorn and forgotten as strains of sad guitar floated from the dance floor, the night winding down, the writhing crowd paired off into couples that twined in their own intimate worlds. On the table top, the two tequila bottles they'd finished off even seemed paired together, their square edges touching each other with intimate familiarity, faintly tinkling in time with Spike's swaying motion. Countless shot glasses littered the table, and somewhere in the center of the stubby, glass sentinels, an ashtray swelled high with butts, perilously close to overflowing.  
  
"That sucks," Faith slurred, wavering precariously over the table, her face in grave danger of falling into the ashtray. "Angel told me he __might care about me," she spat, her voice caustic. "Y' believe that? Said he _might_ care 'n then ran out on me."  
  
"He's a bloody wanker," Spike agreed angrily. "Stupid poofter."  
  
"Yeah," Faith agreed, stirring from her drunken slump just slightly, a touch of fire in her dark eyes. She blinked, blearily trying to focus on the table. "'Nother bottle?"  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
They stumbled out into the back alley behind the Bronze, clinging to each other in a drunken sway that threatened to overbalance at any moment. Faith clutched at the collar of Spike's duster, trying to haul herself up, and he fell toward her, causing both of them to burst into brief laughter.  
  
"S'not right, them closing up th' place like that," he grumbled after a moment, regaining his balance.  
  
"Hey," Faith perked up, blinking and peering around the alley. "I know this place."  
  
That caused Spike to crack a mocking smile. "You ought to. Regular college boy dumping ground back here."  
  
He turned to look at her and noticed that her eyes seemed slightly sharper than a moment before as they focused on him. He shifted his footing as he considered what that might mean, and nearly toppled over.  
  
She caught him and hauled him back up on his rubbery legs, pulling him rather closer to her than he strictly needed to be. Fire shone deep in her dark eyes, and her manner had changed perceptibly. She seemed more aware, suddenly, more alive. "I remember the last time we were here."  
  
"Yeah. Me, too." He took an unnecessary deep breath and held it, looking down at her quite seriously and intently now, wondering where she was going with this.  
  
"I was a total tease," she said with a grin.  
  
"You were a complete bitch," he corrected her, smirking back.  
  
"I should make that up to you, huh?"  
  
"You propositioning me, Slayer?" he asked in that dangerous way he had about him, half-teasing, half-serious, echoing his words from earlier in the night.  
  
"Oh yeah," she agreed, and she seemed to sober a bit more with the sultry flirtation. "Think you can keep up?"  
  
"Think you can get ahead of me?"   
  
"Oh, I think you'd be amazed at what I can do." She spun him around toward her by his shoulder and grabbed him around the waist, pulling him tight up against her, grinning like a devil.  
  
She might have thought the unexpected momentum would catch his drunken body off guard and expected him to pitch over, overbalance and give her the upper hand, but he didn't. A predatory posture entered his lean body as he grabbed hold of her hips, hands sliding down over her ass as he stared down at her, blue eyes bright with ravenous desire. Sudden lust for her coursed through his body, and he was surprised to find that he was _hungry_ for her, that he fairly craved her.   
  
She grabbed him roughly by the back of his platinum hair and pressed her mouth to his. Their tongues met, twining earnestly with desperate need, as if both their bodies had only been waiting for this moment, waiting for them to realize the truth and let the denial end. He felt body writhe against his as she arched her hips up into him and inspired an aching need between his own. He pushed back against her, and she moaned hungrily into his mouth, rocking against him eagerly, and startled by her passion, he drew back to look at her in wonder.  
  
For a moment she only stared back with a gaze that seemed to devour him from the inside out, her chest heaving, breasts high and firm against his chest with every panting breath, and then her brown eyes widened like those of a doe, and she shoved him away from her, spinning him out in a spiral to her right.  
  
He stumbled and nearly went down, coming up in a disbelieving, furious rage as he turned on her like an animal. "Dammit, Slayer! What—"  
  
He broke off as he saw Faith's fist connect with a sharp crack against the jaw of a large, bronze-skinned man who held a stake in his left hand. The man stumbled backwards with a stunned shake of his head, his eyes fixed on Faith in amazement.  
  
"Slayer?" The man seemed confused, perhaps even panicked by the discovery.  
  
"That's right," Faith proclaimed, swaying only slightly as she backed up, pushing up her sleeves. "You picked the wrong girl to mess with, beefcake."  
  
"I—I didn't know." He held up his hands in a gesture of peace, and for such a large, capable looking man, he seemed very vulnerable, looked even, perhaps, a bit sheepish. "We heard that the Slayer was dead. And I… thought he was going to bite you," the man motioned toward Spike, stake seemingly forgotten in his hand. "He is a… vampire, right?" the man asked uncertainly.  
  
Faith's eyes narrowed slightly as she tried to process all that through her drunken brain. "Yeah."  
  
"And… you're the Slayer?" he asked hesitantly, as if slowly putting together the pieces.  
  
"Yeah," she answered more crossly. "You got a point, Mr. Universe?"  
  
"Then…" he frowned, and dark eyes flickered back and forth between them, seeming to reach a reluctant conclusion. "What were you two… doing?"  
  
Faith and Spike exchanged guilty, uncertain glances. Now that the moment was past, both were reluctant to mention it, think about it, or even acknowledge it.  
  
"He's a good-guy." Faith made an offhand motion toward Spike and gave the vampire an apologetic shrug when he glared at her explanation.  
  
"Oh." The man still seemed uncertain, and he sized Spike up with a curious glance. "So you're Angel, then?"  
  
Spike glared daggers at the man, about to retort when Faith stepped between them. "You seem to know an awful lot that you shouldn't," she said dangerously, leveling her eyes on the muscular mystery man. "How about you tell us who you are and maybe I won't make you unconscious."  
  
The bronze skinned man raised his shoulders and stood tall and proud, easily more than six feet tall at his full height. Cute, Faith couldn't help noticing. Brazilian, maybe, all lean jaw and rugged, pretty boy features attached to a frame that was, by all physical standards, very impressive.   
  
"My name is Tenth. I'm with an Order called the Guardians."  
  
"Great. Why are you here?" She fired off the question like a bullet from a gun.  
  
He fixed her with a look that froze her heart in her throat, a look that said he knew far more even than he'd already suggested. A look that said he knew who and what she was, and though there was respect for her reflected in his eyes, he looked at her as if she were already dead, his expression vaguely sad but matter-of-fact.  
  
"To stop the world from ending."  
  
  
_________________________________________________  
  
Apologies that this took so long to write. I'm even publishing it without flavor lyrics because I can't find the perfect ones and I'm in hurry to post it (I'll add them later). It was a difficult, in-between chapter, establishing relationships and such, and took it's time getting to the point I needed to be at. It gave me a harder time than any chapter yet. I've already managed to finish chapter 6 in the week following my finishing of 5 (and oh BOY does it start getting good!), so hopefully I'm back on track!  
  
  
_


	6. Mortal Ground 2 Chapter 6: Revelations ...

CHAPTER 6: REVELATIONS PT. 1  
  
Do you mean this horny creep  
Set upon weary feet  
Who looks in need of sleep  
That doesn't come?   
  
This twisted, tortured mess  
This bed of sinfulness  
Who's longing for some rest  
And feeling numb?   
  
What do you expect of me?  
What is it you want?  
Whatever you've planned for me  
I'm not the one.  
  
            ~Barrel of a Gun, Depeche Mode  
______________________________________________  
  
"Bloody hell," Spike groaned, rolling his eyes. "_Again_?"  
  
"What are you talking about?" Faith spat at the stranger, tone angry, disgusted, and just the slightest bit uncertain.  
  
"I'd wager you know exactly what I'm talking about, Slayer. The Hellmouth," he said plainly, never looking away. "It's going to open." He looked her up and down again, and something soft, something quiet and sympathetic entered his eyes. "It will fall to you, now."  
  
"You don't know what the hell you're talking about!" She stepped toward him with venomous rage, eyes black and shooting sparks, hands clenched into fists that were ready to beat a different story out of him. It was too much, too fast.  
  
The man who called himself Tenth arched a calm, black brow at her, his disbelief plain. "Really." It was flat. A comment, not a question.  
  
"You can't know that!" She went on, still so angry that she seemed not to hear him. But there was an edge of desperation to her voice now, a ragged edge that told the truth of her feelings.  
  
"I can. And I do. Just because you don't want to hear it doesn't change anything."  
  
A muscle in her face twitched, jaw line tensing, and she took another step forward. "Let me show you what _I_ know," she said dangerously, fists rising.  
  
"Let's say you're right," Tenth interjected. "And I _am_ wrong. What do you have to lose by hearing me out?"  
  
She faltered, eyes and hands falling.  
  
"Is there a reason you don't want to know?" he asked pointedly, and even Spike looked at her with curiosity then.  
  
"No," she said strident, insistent. Her dark eyes fluttered back and forth, as if she were trying to decide something.  
  
"And if I'm right… can you really _afford_ not to know?"  
  
She took a deep breath and held it, debating.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
A few hours later, Faith groaned and pressed the heel of her hand against her brow, grimacing in pain. The morning sun that drifted through the Magic Box's windows was like a knife blade piercing the delicate membrane of her eyes, skewering them whole before thrusting into her brain and twisting. Thrusting… now _there was a word that conjured up images of last night that she didn't want to remember.  
  
She hoped fervently that Spike was suffering as horribly as she was. No. Worse.  
  
She risked a glance at the platinum blonde vampire, who was gathered deep in the dramatic folds of his duster and sunk heavily into a chair nearest the bookshelves where shadows pooled, shielding him from the sun. His elbow rested on a tiny wooden table, one thumb pressed against the scar on his brow to hold up his head, eyes closed in what looked like terrible pain. He hadn't uttered so much as a word since they'd entered the shop.  
  
She allowed herself a small, victorious smirk and looked away.  
  
The smirk faded as her eyes fell on the others who circled the table, reminding her of why she was here. There were actually a _lot_ of things about last night that she'd just as soon forget. From beneath the shade of her hand, she looked over to where Tenth was sitting, his words from last night still echoing in her head.  
  
_The end of the world…  
_  
Just the thought of it made her feel cold, icy dread nesting in the pit of her stomach like a lead weight with a thousand prickling needles. The end of the world? What the fuck was she supposed to do about that, exactly? She, who'd spent over a year in prison, who'd murdered innocent humans, who'd betrayed everyone who had ever cared about her except for a man who'd tried to destroy the world?   
  
_It will fall to you, now…_  
  
She shivered at the thought, the ice porcupine in her stomach shifting restlessly, flexing its quills. It made her laugh now, to think of how she'd viewed her calling yesterday. How she'd trivialized it by looking at as if it amounted to nothing more than simple ass kicking. There was a hell of a lot more to being Chosen than that, and though she'd always realized that in a vaguely distant way, the enormity of it was dawning on her now. Before, it had always been Buffy's job to save the world, and Faith, in that aspect of being a Slayer at least, had always felt safe, always secondary. She'd been there to lend her fists when the Hellmouth had opened once, had fought alongside Buffy, fully aware that if they lost it would mean the end of everything… but the fate of the world had never rested squarely on her shoulders as it had on Buffy's. Now she was beginning to realize that _she_ was the thin, fragile barrier between the world and its complete destruction, and it terrified her to the core of her soul.  
  
Tenth hadn't told her much. In fact, he'd been very close mouthed about the apocalypse since she'd decided to bring him to Giles, and she had let him be—mostly because she hadn't wanted to know. She hadn't wanted to bring him, had wanted to run from his words… but in the end, she'd known she couldn't let him walk away without finding out for sure if what he said was true. If the world _was_ really at stake, it __would fall to her, and no matter how terrified she might feel, she couldn't escape that. Besides, she'd believed him, despite what she'd said to the contrary. Had believed him from the moment he'd uttered the words. She thought it was probably the way he had looked at her when he said it. The way he had looked into her eyes as if she were already dead and he was mourning her passing.  
  
But it was more than that, wasn't it? All the Slayer dreams pointed to something big on the horizon, and his claim that the world was in danger not only aligned with the scroll they had found and the droves of vampires swarming the Hellmouth—it confirmed the feeling deep in her gut, some primal, animal instinct that warned of danger and death just beyond the horizon of her vision. She didn't know if it was Slayer sense or simple primitive, human instinct, but she knew it was true as soon as he said it. Knew it like she sometimes knew where to stab with her stake without looking.  
  
It had taken her a while to rouse Giles, who had roused the others, and eventually everyone had gathered together in the Magic Box, the sleepiness that still tugged at the corners of their eyes not doing a thing to blunt the dark and vaguely worried expressions they wore.  
  
Faith let her hands fall over her eyes again, hiding her face from the blinding sun, seeking relief from her headache within the cool shelter of her fingers, shutting out her vision of the world. She didn't want to look at any of them, anyway, after everything that had happened the last time she'd seen them… but this time she covered her face more to hide her own expression than to shield herself from theirs.  
  
Tenth had begun speaking, and soon… soon she was going to find out exactly how much the world weighed.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"So this Order of Guardians," Giles asked as he circled the table in the Magic Box, "what exactly do you do?"  
  
With a candidness that appeared almost unnatural, Tenth examined the Watcher, eyes so dark they looked black. "You've never heard of us?"  
  
"Not as such, no." Giles' brow furrowed with confusion. He looked back at Tenth with a scrutiny that was no less apparent, though far more confused and guarded. Tenth was candid, yes, but there was watchfulness in him as well, one that felt… almost dangerous. Giles got the feeling that he would be a very honest man, up to and beyond the point when he snapped your neck.  
  
"It's a bit of a story," Tenth admitted. "But I'm willing to tell it. Fox…" He glanced at his partner.  
  
The boy was sitting quietly in a chair off to the side, staring at Faith with such obvious awe that it was comedic. The Slayer herself was either too miserable to notice the attention or was deliberately ignoring it.   
  
"Fox," he repeated, more insistently this time.  
  
The boy's head snapped up and he looked at Tenth with mildly panicked confusion. "Huh?"  
  
"You want to go get us some coffee? Looks like it's gonna be a long, thirsty day." He glanced at Faith and his brow furrowed just a bit. "Slayer looks like she could use some, too."  
  
Faith glared at him with one eye as best she could through her parted fingers, and he gave her a mild smile in return, which made her glower even harder. She disappeared behind the latticework of her fingers once again, perhaps too hung-over to make a snappy reply.  
  
Fox scrambled from his seat. "I'm on it," he declared, making for the door. Halfway there, he paused and turned looking over the others. "Anyone else want anything?"  
  
"Hot chocolate?" Willow asked, then reached over and touched Tara's shoulder, fingers stroking the soft wool of her sweater. "You want anything, baby?"   
  
Tara shook her head and the boy's eyes widened slightly as he took in the nature of their relationship. Member of the Order he might be, but mostly he was still young and naïve when it came to the world of a normal teenager. To his credit, the boy caught himself, affirming only, "Got it," before he walked out the door.  
  
Tenth's eyes lingered on the two of them for a moment longer. Witches, if the auras he perceived were correct. And the redheaded one was the far more powerful of the two. Girlfriends. Well, that was interesting, and convenient he supposed, given their similar interests. He let his eyes slide from them to flicker briefly over the others. The young man, Xander, seemed slightly anxious, ill at ease all the time, but he was solid. Dedicated. Tenth could tell. Possibly dangerous if pushed under the right circumstances. But his function here seemed to be support and back up, not fighting. His girlfriend, though, Anya… Tenth couldn't seem to get a read on her. Her aura was strange. She was by turns innocent and ancient, new and old. She seemed very knowledgeable about the arcane from what he had observed so far, but about human customs, she seemed to have no clue. Yet she _was_ human, no trace of demon. He didn't quite know what to make of her, and he kept a wary eye on her.  
  
The Slayer. She was something of an enigma to him. He didn't quite know what to make of her, either. That she'd been consorting with that vampire last night was no longer in question. That she was allied with the previous Slayer's team seemed odd, in addition to that. And… she didn't strike him as the Slayer type, honestly. She seemed too surly, too hot tempered, not at all the cool, calm, detached warrior he'd been told tales of. Still… he supposed she'd been chosen for a reason, and for her status at least, he respected her. From her, he got the clear sense of demonic energy, and he wondered if she even knew it existed. He didn't think so. He was beginning to figure out that there were a lot of things these people didn't know, which seemed odd, considering their association with the Council. Or perhaps not so odd. If the Council was not only bigoted, but also untrusting with their knowledge and secrets, withholding information in order to gain power over others, it wouldn't surprise him in the least, given what he knew.  
  
Funny. He tilted his head and gave her a last once-over. He'd never known a Slayer before (_and shouldn't be in the company of one right now_, the militant voice of his training spoke up in the background of his mind), but he hadn't expected the energy of a force for good to be so dark.  
  
The vampire. That one blew his mind almost completely. It went against everything that'd been taught and trained into him. That the Slayer and her companions allowed a creature such as that within their ranks… It made him question all of them just a bit more, made him reconsider every word that passed their lips. He'd realized quickly enough that there was something different about this vampire; he didn't seem to be the killing, murdering, blood-sucking fiend that Tenth had become so familiar with over the years. But his aura was still dark. Far darker than the Slayer's. It seemed to hiss and crackle with energy inside Tenth's mind, black and sly and deadly. And yet… there was lightness to it as well. There was humanity in this creature, perhaps far more than he'd seen in any vampire. And according to the Slayer's assurance, he was incapable of bringing harm to humans. Still…  
  
His contemplation of all these things lasted only seconds as he turned his eyes back to Giles, who was looking at him with barely restrained, impatient curiosity. Giles. This man, like most of the group, seemed to suffer from a duality, a contradiction of natures, but in him it was more pronounced. Tenth got the sense that the mild-mannered, inquisitive, intelligent man could be quite a deadly opponent if forced. He considered the older man contemplatively for a moment, wondered again whether or not he was doing the right thing, and then threw his doubts to the wind. The division between the Council and the Order was stupid as far as he was concerned. His mission was too important to let fail because of stupid pride and an ages-old feud. And if his actions here could make a dent in relations… well, having the Slayer and her team on their side couldn't be a bad thing. If the world survived long enough for other bad things to happen, that was.  
  
He fought the urge to let his fingers fidget, wished distantly for a cigarette, and mustered a faint smile. "So. I guess we should start at the beginning."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
He began in a voice that sounded educated and scholarly—nothing like his normal street-smart, casual tone, that occasionally dropped its ending g's and often left out joining words all together—and the whole came out sounding like an often read and recited narrative.  
  
"In the earliest ages, we worked with the Council. It wasn't called the Council back then, but they served the same purpose they do now. Things were simpler back then. There were fewer people, and they worshipped many Gods. Demons were accepted as a fact of life, good as well as evil, and sometimes, they were worshipped as well. And sometimes, they were sought by the bravest and most curious of scholars for their knowledge and ability. The good demons saw purpose in what these scholars were doing, and some of them united with these scholars to form a base of knowledge and a small army of warriors. This alliance endured for many centuries."  
  
"When Christianity first surfaced, it seemed like many of the other religions of the time, only different names and different places assigned to the people and events of importance. It was researched, but in general paid little mind since many believed it would pass or remain contained like most religions had in the past. But as it developed a stronger following and fanatical devotion, some of the Council's members in the later generations, for obvious reasons, embraced its teachings, and a division began to grow between the human scholars and the demons. Other religions began to grow and incorporate the same ideals that Christianity upheld, which were really just ideals of older, smaller religions cobbled together and given new shine. Humans began to believe that they would become tainted by consorting with demons, and that all demons, regardless of intent or appearance, were evil, and must not be endured. The ties between scholar and demon broke down badly over the next few generations, and were eventually severed."   
  
"You're claiming that the Council worked with demons on their side during all this time?" Giles interrupted, vaguely disturbed. "I've read all the Council histories. There are… no records of what you claim recorded among them."  
  
"None that you've seen," Tenth added. "Mr. Giles, you seem to be an exception to the rule, but you know as well as I do that the Council, as a whole, are completely bigoted. They've had centuries to cultivate their prejudice and arrogance. Plenty of time to doctor or hide their histories as necessary. Are you telling me you find that hard to believe?"  
  
A shadow crossed Giles' face, and Tenth could almost see the years of the Watcher's life flying by in his mind, memories of dealing with the Council throughout the years. "No," he answered, voice sour. "Surprising, perhaps. But not difficult to believe." Despite the acidic tone of his voice, his expression remained indecisive. He didn't put it past the Council to do that, no. But he didn't exactly believe that they __had, either. He was accepting Tenth's story for the moment, but not taking it as gospel. His shrewdness made Tenth smile.  
  
And then Anya spoke up. "Oh, it's true," she said, stating flat fact. "I used to date this Historian back during the Dark Ages—it didn't work out; he had this tortured guilt thing about me being a vengeance demon—but he knew about the nastiness between the Council and the Order. Out and out war. He told me all about it." She shrugged. "Even showed me the histories. He used to _love_ to show me his books," she confided with a grin. "He used to get them out and I'd dress up like—"  
  
"Anya, honey, that's enough being helpful, okay?" Xander interjected with false brightness.  
  
"Indeed," Giles muttered. After a moment, he nodded, seeming reluctant. "Nevertheless, it seems to back up your story, Tenth. Please, do continue."  
  
Tenth's mind was still racing with all that Anya had revealed. She _used _to be a vengeance demon? How was that—  
  
"Tenth?"  
  
"Right. Just, remembering where I left off."  
  
He picked up the narrative and continued smoothly, despite the interruption.  
  
"The ties were severed. Christianity thrived, and demons became things that were only feared and hunted, never worshipped or sought. The killers or the killed. Those demons who had once teamed with the scholars, who had defended the world and all of humankind, went into hiding for fear that they would be sought out and destroyed. They survived, but worked underground, in the background, beyond human eye and device. The Council… they always knew this order of demons still existed. In the earliest centuries, following what Christians record as the death of Christ up through the Dark Ages," he nodded at Anya, "there was war between the two factions. Silence marked the centuries up into the more modern ages, where tolerance was being preached. At long last, the violent religious fervor was passing, and in its wake, an uneasy peace was born between the Council and the demons, which had come to call themselves an Order, and whose members were called Guardians."   
  
"The Order…" Giles said, eyes intense and thoughtful. "So you're a…"   
  
"Demon. Yes." Tenth's voice was steady and sure as he replied. "But only in part. Most of me is human. Fox and I both, as well as almost everyone in our Order are at least partially demon."  
  
"Why only demons?" Giles asked, both curious and confused.  
  
Tenth only shrugged. "There aren't many humans outside the Council that fight the forces of evil. And most ones that do wouldn't side with demons. Even ones fighting on the same side."  
  
"Gee, I wonder why?" Xander quipped, giving Tenth a pointed look  
  
Tenth appeared not to hear him, taking a moment to find his place in the story, and when he spoke again, the narrative changed, becoming half scholarly and half casual, a mixture of recitation and explanation. "The Council's mistrustfulness of anyone bearing demonic origins is well known among the Order, and we stay out of their way. They know we're out here, but they've never quite tried to put a stop to us. Mutual respect and unspoken protocol keeps us out of Council inhabited cities and towns, especially ones with Slayers." He glanced at Faith meaningfully, who ignored him, her head cradled in her hands. The narrative broke down completely as he continued. "We wouldn't want to come between the Chosen One and her duty. That'd be like declaring war. If we'd known the Slayer was still occupying Sunnydale, Blackwell would never have come, and neither would we."  
  
Willow, who had followed the conversation with rapt attention, bobbed her head in surprise and blinked, face scrunching up with curiosity. "Blackwell?"  
  
"Another of our Order. She disappeared while on a mission here. She was tracking some kind of vampire and fell out of communication with us shortly after reaching Sunnydale. My partner, Fox, and I came here to find out what happened to her." Faith glanced up at Tenth as he spoke, and their eyes locked in a brief, intense gaze. He could read the silent questions in her eyes, knew she wanted to know about what he'd said last night.  
  
"There's more…" His manner, if possible, grew even more intense, and he eyed them all gravely. "In our Order, there's a woman called the Oracle. She has visions… It was one of her visions that brought us here." He broke eye contact, looking down at the table for a moment. "A field operative, even one of our best, is expendable if it means keeping our existence low profile. Sunnydale's a risky place to be sticking our noses… we wouldn't have come here… but what the Oracle saw…" His gaze swept over each of them in turn, ending on the Slayer. "What she saw was the end of the world."  
  
Giles, who'd been on the verge of asking a question, seemed to stumble over his own lips.  
  
Faith stared at Tenth, the same numb look of horror in her eyes that he'd seen last night.   
  
He looked around to see the effect his words had had on the others. To his surprise, he noted that while Giles looked concerned, he didn't actually seem afraid. To his complete shock, the other humans shifted with slight concern, but received the news rather nonchalantly. The vampire looked as completely bored as he had last night. Tenth had known they had served with the previous Slayer and faced many trials (they'd been described in the dossier he'd received prior to going on this mission—minus the vampire), but while he _knew_ that, it was quite a different thing to see that it was true.  
  
"Great." Xander lifted his hands and made a half frame with his fingers, as if to suggest a panoramic view. "'It's The End Of The World. Again'," he said, quoting as if reading from an ad. He dropped his hands back on the table, shook his head and gave a wry smile that bordered on dark amusement. "The Hellmouth really needs to get a new slogan."  
  
And that was when Tenth understood that these people _really_ saved the world for a living. That was when he knew they were far more formidable than he'd originally thought.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith kept her silence. She wanted to laugh. Wanted to cry and scream and kick and make this not be happening. Anything not to have to sit here and listen to what Tenth was going to say.  
  
But she couldn't. She felt frozen, removed, as if everything going on around her was happening at a great distance. Everyone else seemed so calm. Had they really done this so many times that it no longer fazed them? She couldn't imagine it. If she hadn't been so upset, she might have been able to look more closely, see that they weren't as unimpressed as they appeared; they just weren't afraid. Yet.  
  
Her heart felt like it was held together by bits of string, wound round and round, enshrouding it like a mummy inside tiny ropes, keeping all the pieces together. It felt unwieldy, fragile, as if the slightest tug would set it spinning again, unraveling her.  
  
She could almost feel fate tightening its fingertips around the end of the string, preparing to yank…  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"So your Oracle believes that this event, whatever it is, will take place soon?" Giles asked intently, seeming to concentrate on several separate other lines of thought while keeping track of the conversation.  
  
"Yes, but she doesn't know when."  
  
Giles shifted and folded his arms over his chest, giving Tenth a scrutinizing look. "Could we be a little clearer on what we're talking about?"  
  
"She's… pretty sure the Hellmouth is going to open."  
  
"_Again_?" Xander asked, incredulous. "See?" he said, disgusted, looking around the table. "This is what I'm talking about! No imagination! No points for creativity!" He leaned back, looking surly. "I give it a three," he declared.  
  
"Before you grade the end of the world with a crude numbering system, perhaps we should hear the details?" Giles asked with mild sarcasm.  
  
"I'm afraid there aren't many details," Tenth said with real regret. "The Oracle said the lines of power that will cross are too great; there are too many convergences and divergences she can't distinguish. She only got fragments..." He ran a hand over the loose, black topknot at the back of his head, frustrated that he couldn't articulate more clearly. "I'll tell you what we could make sense of: She said that the event would be cataclysmic and individual. She said that the world's Savior this time could easily become its Destroyer, that the line between light and darkness is very fine within them."   
  
He paused and noted how their attention suddenly moved away from him, their eyes falling on Faith, mistrustful. The Slayer herself shifted uneasily, staring off into the distance away from them all as if her soul had been stolen from her body and only the shell remained seated there.   
  
"She said that what was divided will be made whole," he went on speaking as if he hadn't noticed. "She said that the noble intentions of heroic hearts will lead to a betrayal that will inadvertently give evil the upper hand." Again, those covert glances at Faith. He wondered if the Slayer could even hear him, as oblivious as she seemed.  
  
"She said that the world will only be saved through sacrifice. The Hellmouth will likely open, and whether or not it will be closed again depends solely on the one who leads the way, and the final decision of if they will become Savior or Destroyer."  
  
"But you're not certain of who? Or what circumstances will cause it?"  
  
"No." Tenth shook his head regretfully. "She couldn't see clearly. She said it was like a veil had been drawn over the future, and she could only see the vaguest silhouettes."  
  
"That's… not extremely convincing, I'm afraid." Giles sounded mildly apologetic and disappointed. "You're telling us that something terrible 'may or may not' happen," he added, not bothering to mask his suspicion that it might not be true at all.  
  
"I'll tell you something I know for sure," Tenth went on, dark eyes hardening. "The Oracle's predictions always come true. _Always_. The outcome this time might depend on the actions of another, but you tell me, which way do _you_ think it'll go? How do things usually go around here? Towards good, or bad?"  
  
Everyone shifted restlessly, seeming to look anywhere but at him.  
  
"That's what I thought."  
  
  
_


	7. Mortal Ground Chapter 7: Revelations Pt...

CHAPTER 7: REVELATIONS PT. 2  
  
What am I supposed to do?  
When everything that I've done  
Is leading me to conclude  
I'm not the one.   
  
Whatever I've done  
I've been staring down the barrel of a gun.   
  
Is there something you need from me?  
Are you having your fun?  
I never agreed to be  
Your holy one.   
  
Whatever I've done  
I've been staring down the barrel of a gun.  
  
            ~Barrel of a Gun, Depeche Mode  
______________________________________________  
  
"It's true," Faith spoke abruptly into the silence, and then looked regretful, as if she hadn't meant to speak at all. The eyes that met Giles' were filled with wrestling demons, and he thought he hadn't seen eyes so haunted since… well, since Buffy had gone to her final battle, truth be told. "I…" she looked away, seeming embarrassed. "The dreams… everything fits. I know it's true."  
  
"Well, _that_ puts our doubts to rest," Xander muttered.  
  
Giles looked at her intently, searching her face. "Faith… You're sure?"  
  
"I don't know how, or why, but I know he's right. It's like a… a Slayer sense or something." When he continued to stare at her, she went on the defensive. "Hey, it's not like I _want_ it to be true, believe me." She seemed about to say more, but closed her mouth on the next words, shrugged and subsided into silence.  
  
Giles seemed more convinced by that, and he turned his attention back to Tenth. "If that's the case… then I'm afraid your Oracle's words still offer us little in the way of enlightenment."  
  
"The knowledge of the Oracle is a sword that cuts both ways. Sometimes knowing a little of what's to come is worse than knowing nothing at all." Giles nodded as if to say he knew that implicitly, and Tenth believed him. "The Oracle thinks everything that's going to happen is connected to whatever happened to Blackwell. She caught a glimpse of her in the vision"  
  
"Then that's where we'll start. You said she came here tracking a vampire?" Giles asked, and Tenth could almost see the man gathering seeds, plowing the fertile soil of his mind, planting ideas and aligning everything for the crop of revelations that were certain to come.  
  
"A _type_ of vampire," Tenth corrected.  
  
"_A type_ of vampire?" Giles echoed with interest, and despite the severity of their conversation, Tenth could _swear_ he saw excitement in the man's eyes. "What sort?"  
  
"Types? We have _types_ now?" Xander's voice rose, and Tenth thought maybe he would panic for real this time.  
  
Giles made a shushing motion at him, focused intently on Tenth.  
  
"That's the thing," Tenth confided, dark eyes narrowing as he leaned forward. "Blackwell's last check-in call sounded pretty sure that it's a breed we've never seen before. But she never had a chance to give a full report. There are rumors, but no one really knows anything…" He shook his head slowly.  
  
"Do you have any idea what might have happened to her?"  
  
"We have reason to think…" Tenth shifted, still not completely comfortable with the possibility that was well on its way to looking like reality. "…she might be dead."  
  
"You think this… special vampire may have killed her?"  
  
"We can't find a trace of her. Nothing in her hotel room, nothing on the streets. Not a sign, not a whisper. Fox hasn't been able to break into the County Coroner's database to see if she might be there."  
  
Willow slowly lifted her hand and gave a guilty grimace. "That may be _my_ fault."  
  
"Your fault." It was a statement, flat and uncomprehending.  
  
She seemed to consider explaining for a moment, then shrugged and rose from the table. "I can get in," she said simply.  
  
He blinked at her, eyeing her dubiously. "I doubt _anyone can, if Fox couldn't do it."  
  
Willow said nothing, just smirked at him and walked over to her laptop.   
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
A short while later, Willow and Fox were hunched over Willow's laptop, Willow busily typing away as the younger boy watched, fascinated. Anya and Tara sat on either side of the two, listening intently to the conversation between Giles and Tenth. Spike still lounged in the same chair, head tilted back lazily as he eyed them. Faith sat furthest away from them all, her body turned slightly away from everyone, eyes moody and vacant.  
  
"So…" Xander circled Tenth's chair warily. "You're part demon, huh?"  
  
"Trongath," the bronze-skinned man proclaimed proudly.  
  
Xander blinked, confused. "Uh… no speak-y Demonese."  
  
"Trongath." Giles looked up from the book he was poring over, removed his glasses and rubbed thoughtfully at the bridge of his nose. "A type of empath demon, warrior caste."  
  
"You know your stuff," Tenth said with a smile. "About monsters, anyway."  
  
"And are those 'puppy-loving demons', or the 'brain eating' kind?" Xander asked Giles, eyeing the muscular man with a mixture of curiosity and caution.  
  
"Most demonic/human offspring tend toward the side of good, else the parents wouldn't mate." Giles shrugged, explaining further. "Demons who tend toward evil wish to destroy humans, or rule the earth and turn humans into slaves. They certainly wouldn't waste time mating with them. There are exceptions of course. Succubae and Incubi, for instance, which are a form of vampire, mate with humans to drain their soul energy, and occasionally offspring is produced, if a female victim survives. It's not often that they live, though."  
  
"So there _are_ types of vampires." Xander seemed agitated. "How come no one sent me the memo on that one?"  
  
Willow and Fox glanced up from Willow's laptop as if interested in hearing the answer to that.  
  
"Well, they're exceedingly rare," Giles explained, voice mild and slightly apologetic. "Succubae and Incubi are the most common, and even they are small in number. Their existence is confirmed and documented by the Council." He motioned to his book. "Legends tell of all kinds of vampires; Ekimmu, Empusas, the Leanhaum-shee, Kuang-shi, Lamia, Rakshasa…" He set the book down and shrugged, stymied. "But few of those creatures are currently confirmed beyond folklore. The Council has records documenting their existence in the very early ages, but they have scarcely been seen since. One here, one there, perhaps every fifty years or so, and only the ones who are killed can be studied and confirmed. __If they don't turn to dust."  
  
Willow frowned slightly, still listening. "But if vampires were created when the last demon left the world and bit a human… how can there be more than one kind?"  
  
He shifted his stance and leaned back against the wall, considering. "Well, it could be that these vampires are the result of the oldest vampires; ones who grew old and mutated. Vampires grow more powerful… their range of abilities broader, even change physically as they grow older. Buffy said that the Master had the ability to put her in a thrall. Kakistos had cloven hooves. It stands to reason that an ancient vampire could also change its chemistry over time, no longer requiring blood so much as life energy, or souls. Or… it could be that these creatures are __naturally mutated vampires. For some reason, the vampire is 'born' with different abilities or features than the others. It happens in all species, even demons. And then, if they live, they reproduce their mutations in the ones they sire. It's evolution at its finest."  
  
"Great," Xander commented, pacing restlessly. "Mutant vampires in the sewers… Next thing you know they'll be swinging nunchukus and yelling 'Cowabunga, dude'.  
  
Giles gave him an odd look and then continued. "They could also be a completely separate species of vampire all together, if such things exist. We simply can't know without researching it. I think we should cross-reference what we know, look for rare breeds of vampires that only keep male minions. I believe the vampire this Blackwell was tracking and our new enemy may be one in the same. And even if they're not, it may still turn up some information."  
  
"Male minions?" Tenth asked, confused.  
  
"Oh, yes, let me—"  
  
"Okay," Willow interrupted, looking down at the screen of her laptop. "I think I've got something."  
  
"You got in?" Tenth asked, sounding surprised as he rose from his seat and walked around the table to get a better look.  
  
Willow's expression was a mixture of chagrin and pride. "Fox couldn't get in because I locked him out. Locked everyone out, actually. They've upped their security over the years—not that it was ever a problem or anything—but if anybody else ever tried to get in and got caught, they'd make the security so tough that it'd be hard for _me_ to get in."  
  
Fox shot her a mild look of appreciation. "That's pretty impressive."  
  
"Oh, thanks." Willow dipped her head and gave a quirky smile. "It was really easy once I got past the—"  
  
"So what'd you find?" Tenth asked, breaking in before they could get too far off topic.  
  
"Well," Willow frowned at the screen, pursing her lips. "There's no one in here by your friend's name. There's a couple of Jane Doe's though. I'm going to try to pull… up… the…" All the color seemed to drain from her face, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh… wow… that's really…"  
  
By then everyone had crowded around the monitor except for Faith and Spike, who were watching with mild interest.  
  
"Yeah? What?" Faith asked, voice rather too sharp.  
  
Willow made a face and clicked the mouse, leaving behind the grisly pictures to scroll through the Coroner's notes. "This is really horrible. It says here that they think this girl was killed by some kind of serial killer, but she had twin punctures in her neck…"  
  
"Vampire," Xander concluded.  
  
"Yeah." Willow looked over at Fox with trepidation. "Is that… is she…?"  
  
"That's not Blackwell," Tenth answered, relieved.  
  
"Well, that's… good. But then…" she frowned, looking up at Giles. "Do you think a vampire might have done these other things to her?"  
  
Giles leaned closer, squinting at the screen. "Decapitation. Mouth sewn shut. Removal of all inner organs… Good lord. It… it sounds as if it might be the work of a cult. I suppose we should, ah, a-add it to our research, just in case."  
  
Willow nodded, making note of a few things before gratefully clicking away to the next Jane Doe case.   
  
A few minutes later they had determined that Blackwell was not among any of them.  
  
"Well, that's good to know," Tenth allowed with a sigh. "But it puts us back at square one."  
  
"Not completely," Giles contradicted. "If, as you say, there is an apocalypse on the way, it's certain to be documented somewhere. I have references and books I can check. It may not help us find your partner, but it may assist us in stopping this… thing from happening." He glanced at the bookshelves.  
  
"Oh," Willow exclaimed, as if an idea had just occurred to her. "We could, uh, try a spell to find her."  
  
"I'd thought of that," Giles looked at her and nodded. "But the fact that she's part demon means a locator spell would be tricky at best, since it would only work on her, ah, human parts."  
  
"I know," she agreed with an eager nod. "So I was thinking about contacting a higher plane, you know, asking for some guidance. I mean, if this friend of theirs is so important to what's going to happen, some higher power has to know something about what happened to her."  
  
"Willow, that's extremely dangerous," Giles said with disapproval, taking off his glasses and frowning at her.  
  
"I know," she said again, bubbly exuberance not fading a bit. "But I was thinking that Tara could anchor me… or… possibly… you…" she trailed off at his look.  
  
"I can't allow you to risk yourself like that."  
  
"But I want to," she protested, still managing to hold on to a bit of brightness.  
  
"I know," he said, voice and eyes grave. "That's what worries me." He spoke up quickly, seeing her about to protest. "Willow, your spirit could become trapped on that plane, or worse, killed by whatever creature decides to answer your call. I know you want to help, but it's just too dangerous."  
  
"He's right, Willow," Tara spoke up, looking at her lover with concern.  
  
Willow bit down on her lower lip, biting back whatever she'd been about to say, and retreated back into her chair. Giles she would have argued with, but not Tara. Not after what had happened last time. At least, not yet.  
  
"I'm certain the books will offer us some sort of insight of what's to come…" Giles trailed off, looking vaguely troubled.  
  
"Do you have any of the Slayer prophecies?" Tenth asked.  
  
"Of course!" Giles answered, sounding offended. He walked over to the ladder that led up to the loft that held the most dangerous and knowledgeable books. "I have at least th—"  
  
"Great," Faith cut in as she leapt to her feet. "So while you guys research, I'll do another tour of the sewers, see if I can smoke out some vamps." Her mannerisms were upbeat, exaggerated and cocky as ever, and her voice was light… but it was off. She looked like a rigid marionette trying to imitate life and failing miserably. Her smile might as well have been plastered on for all its sincerity.  
  
Giles turned slowly, eyes deep and knowing with realization, as if he had seen something she wasn't putting on display for them. Damn. How could he have been so thoughtless? He'd noticed her just sitting there like some sort of lifeless doll, but somehow it just hadn't clicked. He wasn't used to her being around, yet, wasn't expecting much from her besides silence until (if and when) she got more comfortable. He hadn't thought about what her silence might mean in this case.  
  
"Faith… I know news of this apocalypse must be difficult for you to hear. You've never…" he trailed off, thinking the better of what he was about to say, and cocked his head to the side, looking at her with concern, instead, chagrined by the fact that it hadn't occurred to him earlier. "Are you all right?"  
  
"Sure." She gave a half-hearted shrug. "You know. Five by--"   
  
She cut herself short and paused, looking down at the ground self-consciously, dark eyes troubled and sad. "I…" She tucked a lock of hair behind one ear, too aware of everyone's eyes on her, not all of them kind. "I'll handle it," she said, voice quiet, more serious.  
  
The silence inside the shop was palpable.  
  
"I will," she said with more certainty as she raised her eyes to look at him. She looked shaken, disheveled after her long night in a way that only made her look even more fragile. She was still frightened, but steadier than she had been a moment ago. "I just… right now I need to go. Hunt. Let off some steam. You know?" Her eyes fairly pleaded with him to understand.  
  
He nodded, and she turned to go, taking the inside door to the basement and sewers below.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"Are you sure that was smart?" Xander asked after she was gone, eyeing Giles uncertainly. "What if she decides to take off?"  
  
"I thought that would make you all happy?" Giles asked, giving him a pointed look. Xander shrank from him slightly, and he went on in softer voice. "If she wants to leave, we have no right to hold her. We just… have to trust in her."  
  
He looked at the door, eyes distant and thoughtful. "And if she does leave… well, then we'll have to handle it by ourselves."  
  
"Right," Xander said and shrugged, trying for upbeat.  
  
"Nothing we haven't done before," Willow added. Her voice was neutral, but a line of worry creased her brow.  
  
"Because we always thwart apocalypses without a Slayer," Anya finished with light, yet nevertheless biting, sarcasm.  
  
Tenth and Fox watched the whole exchange with mild discomfort.  
  
"I'd say it's a bit soon to panic," Giles hedged, attempting to sound casual. "We don't even know what we're up against. And she hasn't left yet."   
  
He leaned to pick up his book, his mannerisms becoming businesslike again. "In the meantime… ah… Willow, why don't you and Fox do some searching online, see if you can find any links between what we already know? Xander, Anya, Tara, cross-reference the books. Tenth…" He trailed off, looking at the younger man as if he'd only just realized that he might not take kindly to being ordered about.  
  
"You're the man who knows how this all works," Tenth replied and turned his palms upward, passing the authority to Giles.  
  
Giles gave him a respectful nod. "Perhaps you could continue your efforts searching on the streets." He glanced at the sunlit windows of the store. "I'd send Spike with you, but…"  
  
"S'alright," Spike said, rising from his chair. "Don't think soldier boy here would care much for my company, anyway." He shrugged, eyes straying to the door that led to the sewers. "Slayer's probably gone by now. Think I'll head home, get some rest."  
  
Everyone only glanced at him, saying nothing as they busily began their tasks, and a moment later, he had disappeared through the doorway.   
  
Giles watched everyone bustling with movement for a moment, and then lowered his eyes to his book, his words of a moment ago still echoing in his head.  
  
_And if she does leave… well, then we'll have to handle it by ourselves.  
_  
He had sounded confident, resolute, all the things they needed him to be. The things they had once looked to Buffy to provide. But if there __was an apocalypse on the way, one heralded by an evolved vampire with an army of evolved minions…  
  
He wasn't sure they could do it without her.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
She wasn't gone.  
  
"Oh, bloody hell," Spike muttered in disgust as he dropped the last few feet off the rungs of the ladder. He shifted his posture, uncertain for a moment, then dug into the pocket of his duster and pulled out his cigarettes. He hissed in a sharp breath, inhaling smoke as he lit one, and observed her through the bright orange glow at its end.  
  
"So. End of the world. Slayer hits the big time," he drawled, eyeing her speculatively. "Thought you'd be happier about it. You know, star of the show, name up in lights."  
  
Faith only sat there, sullen and morose, knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around them. Her eyes were glazed as they stared off into the distance, empty, no emotion visible within them. If he couldn't smell her, he might've thought she was dead.  
  
"Slayer?" he asked, tone taking on a note of concern.  
  
She still didn't answer, and he took a tentative step forward.  
  
"I can't do this." She said it so quietly that he almost wasn't sure he heard her right.  
  
"Doesn't appear to me like you've got much choice."  
  
And then she did look at him, and he saw it in her eyes. Fear, panic, resignation… like an animal with its foot caught in a trap. He bit back a sharp retort and took another shuffling step forward, tilted his head to the side as if to better understand her.  
  
"B… Buffy could have done this. She lived for this kind of stuff. But me…" She looked away and gave a sharp, bitter laugh.  
  
Pregnant silence while he let that sink in a moment, the scuffle of a boot heel against the floor.  
  
"Jumping the gun a little there, aren't you? Don't even know what you're up against, yet."  
  
"Doesn't matter." She shook her head bleakly. "It's all going to be on me, and you heard what the man said: Savior or Destroyer. Which one do you think it's gonna be, Spike? 'Cause I know which one I've got my money on." She said the last with a nasty grin, eyes so cold they almost unnerved him, left him with nothing to say.  
  
It took him a moment to find his voice. "Giving up, then?"  
  
"Might as well," she snorted. "You know my nature… they all do. I'm not Buffy. She always knew what to do. How to get it done right."    
  
"No. She didn't," he retorted quietly, reminding himself that she didn't know; there was no way she could know. "Before she died, Buffy was…" He looked up at the ceiling of the sewers, eyes and voice filling with emotion as he sifted through the memories. He didn't like to think about it, Buffy being like that. It'd given him a turn, it had. But it was truth, and he'd never been one to turn away from the truth. "She was afraid. She was scared, and tired, and… defeated."   
  
Faith turned her head toward him again, looking at him with guarded wonder.  
  
"But she pulled it all together in the end," he said, voice sharpening to a harsh, ragged point as he met her gaze. "She did it because she had to, because that's what she did. And she went out to meet Glory, determined to bring her down or die trying. And I fought by her side because I believed in her, because I… because I loved her." He swallowed, looking at her with barely restrained emotion. "She always did what was hard. What was right. Even when she didn't want to. And that's why they all followed her." He tilted his head toward the Magic Box, above them.  
  
"I'll never have that," she said, voice hard yet somehow sad as she shook her head slowly side to side. "I always gave B a hard time about whining. I hated that she had everything and I had nothing. I never knew what it was like for her, though."  
  
"You don't know now, either," Spike contradicted. Her eyes widened slightly at his words, and for just a moment, he saw a spark of fire in her. "Won't know __what you're made of 'til you belly up and give it a try. All well and good to sit around and feel sorry for yourself—but when the time comes, you'd better be ready to defend what you care about. Or live with the consequences."  
  
"Nice speech," she snorted. "Did you write that yourself? What do you care anyway, Spike? I figured hell on earth would be right up your alley of dark pleasures."  
  
"World's not exactly my oyster anymore," he said, words etched with deep sarcasm. "Wasn't fond of it ending _before_ I had this sodding chip. Not any fonder of the idea now that I couldn't take advantage of it."  
  
She pulled her knees tighter against her chest and shook off his words like they didn't matter. "Right. Handicapped vampire, parading around like you're still the big bad, wishing you could sink your fangs into everyone—yeah. I should be taking _your_ advice." She snorted. "You don't get it. There's no way you _could_ get it," she muttered, beginning to sink back into her catatonia.  
  
Oh and _that_ pissed him off right quick, it did. Little bitch had no idea how much he'd done to help stop the world from ending. He'd lost Drusilla over it. Had lost Buffy in the process of it the last time. She hadn't even lost anything yet and here she was, sniveling like a baby.   
  
"You're the one that doesn't get it, Slayer," he spoke up, voice sharp as a dagger, poised to wound. "You _don't have a choice_. Your life's not yours. You've got the power of heroes inside you and you can't just sit around while the world falls down, or it'll eat you up inside. Oh, you might act like you're all little Miss Tough Don't-Fuck-With-Me-or-I'll-Kick-Your-Ass, but I've seen inside you, Slayer. I can smell the fear on you. Can almost taste it it's so strong. And I know the only reason you haven't run like a rabbit yet is because you're so scared you can't even move."  
  
"Fuck you," she uttered in a bitter, trembling voice.  
  
He gave a snort of disbelief, turned to the side impatiently and flicked his cigarette away, and then spun back, pointing a finger at her. "No. You won't run," he condemned her, angry. "You'll stay. And then when the time comes, you'll give in to your fear, and you'll watch while all the others die and pray that your own death comes soon. Because you're too scared to run and too scared to fight."  
  
"Fuck you," she thundered, leaping to her feet and spinning on him. She did it so fast that he didn't have time to react, and when her fist connected with his cheek, the world wavered red and black, and he stumbled backward, feeling something sharp and broken inside his face.  
  
He blinked and steadied himself, regaining his footing and sneering at her. He turned his head to the side and spit blood, uncaring that she stood not three feet from him, body pulled tight as a bowstring, limbs trembling with barely contained rage.  
  
"Go ahead," he taunted, tilting his chin at her and opening his arms. "Brave little Slayer, aren't you?" he asked with a nasty smirk. "Beating up on things that can't fight back."  
  
She lunged at him with her fist out again, and this time he ducked low, thrusting forward and wrapping his arms around her waist, bearing her to the ground beneath him. The chip fired with light pain inside his head, but didn't hit him with the full-fledged zap that would incapacitate him. He didn't intend to hurt her, only meant to keep her from hurting _him_.  
  
She writhed and twisted beneath him like a wild animal for an instant, then went still, gasping for air. He raised his head to look at her, about to speak, and her arms came up around him, tightening like a vice. And then—incredibly—instead of squeezing him, she pulled him closer and kissed him, passion and desperation making her mouth taste all the sweeter.  
  
He didn't stop to think, body responding instantly, and for a moment he was completely lost—heat, fire, lips and tongue, body soft and hard, caught beneath him. She felt like sin and tasted like regret, warm and ripe, filled with blood and life, and his own blood stirred, making him strong, making him hard.   
  
Somehow, thought prevailed and he drew back to look at her in amazement.  
  
"_Christ_, Slayer. And _I've_ got issues?" he demanded with breathless sarcasm.  
  
"I don't care," she whispered raggedly. Tearing at his clothing, touching him, dark eyes seeking his with desperate need. "I want you. Fuck me, Spike."  
  
She said it almost angrily, and the raw need, the desire in her voice sent a thrill through him. He put his hand possessively on the side of her face, palm cupping her jaw line, thumb smearing the blackberry lipstick at the corner of her mouth—and then he felt the tears on her cheeks.  
  
His face softened, still aching where she'd hit him, and he shook his head slowly.  
  
"No, luv. It's not me you want."  
  
She tore at him some more, hands flailing now, passion shifting to something more transparent, something fragile. "I know you want me."  
  
He pushed away from her gently, slowly coming to a sitting position. "This isn't about me."  
  
She sat up, suddenly looking lost and bereft, hair a dark tumble around her pale, tear-streaked face, and he thought she might attack him again. And then her face crumbled, chest heaving with wrenching sobs. She pressed a hand to her face and looked around as if she wanted to run, then pushed away from him, scuttling back on her heels and butt like a crab. She slammed her back against the dirty wall of the sewer and choked, breath catching in her throat with a tiny, meaningless sound that Spike had heard many times before as he'd drained victims down into death. She closed her eyes, pulled her knees up to her chest again and cried, the frustration and pain of the last few months, the last few years—perhaps her entire life—pouring out of her in a torrent.  
  
He sat and watched her, and could almost feel the racking sobs as they left her chest, so heavy were the sounds they made. He sat and stared at her and thought about the first time he'd seen her, how she'd been all fire and broken glass, lust for life equaled only by her despair. Thought about the way she hid herself from everyone behind an almost transparent façade. The way she covered everything soft inside her with nail-hard toughness, the way she never let anyone else win or have the last word. He thought she'd been breaking for a long time, stress fractures snaking out in never-ending tendrils, consuming every bit of clarity until she couldn't see anything else.  
  
And now she'd shattered.   
  
Could he leave her like this? Oh, he could. He knew he could. He could walk away and leave her to disintegrate in a shower of dust. And why should he care? She was nothing but pain in his ass, anyway.   
  
And yet… and yet.  
  
He crawled to her on his hands and knees, then turned and sat beside her, propping himself against the wall. He cut her a sidelong look, spent his own private moment in eternity, torn… and then he reached out and pulled her up beside him, encircling her with his arm.  
  
They sat that way for a long time, the silence of the sewers broken only by the sounds of her sobbing.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
She'd been free-falling since she'd gotten out of prison, and now she'd hit bottom.  
  
No, not just bottom. This was rock bottom. Rock bottom was sitting in a slimy sewer right under all the people who hated her most, crying her heart out on the shoulder of a handicapped vampire who couldn't stand her, her tears flowing down the arm of a leather duster that he'd taken from a Slayer he'd killed twenty years ago because he was the only one who gave enough of a shit to be there and hold her. Yeah, _baby_. If you're gonna hit rock bottom, might as well do it in style. Might as well do face first into rocks and glass with a nice big pile of corpses from murder victims to Watchers piled on your back and a giant helping of apocalypse to top it all off and make it _really_ sweet.  
  
No. This wasn't just rock bottom. This was rock bottom with a side of clusterfuck.  
  
She didn't know how long they sat there, his arm engulfing her in the heavy scent of leather and the feeling of caring, and she didn't care. She didn't care about anything. It was as if everything inside her had welled to bursting and now it was escaping in such a rush that she couldn't distinguish one feeling from another—childhood, lovers, Buffy, Scoobies, Angel, Watchers, betrayals, murders, prison… All of her failures blended together in one huge emotional tsunami and poured from her like water from her heart. The walls she'd built so carefully over the years, walls made of glass, now became sand again beneath her feet.  
  
She'd felt this once before. It had been Angel who'd held her that time, and she wasn't so far gone that she missed the irony of who was holding her this time.  
  
She just didn't care.  
  
And she cared about everything else too much. This feeling inside her, it was too big to hold. It hurt her to move, it was so big. She wanted to run from it… but she couldn't run anymore. Time had finally caught up with her, and the poisoned well of her mind would no longer hold back the tainted thoughts, the hurt feelings, the slights and mistakes of a lifetime.  
  
And none of it mattered.  
  
Because when you came right down to it, her life and all its unpleasantness wasn't _shit_ compared to the fate of the world. In fact, it seemed downright petty, when you looked at it that way.  
  
She had to let it all go. That's what Spike had been trying to tell her in his own misanthropic way. Had to let go of all the bullshit and pull herself together. Had to face death, look it in the eye and smile. Had to save the world.  
  
Because nothing else mattered.  
  
She twined her fingers in the collar of his duster, unconscious of the intimacy of the gesture.  
  
"Take me home," she whispered after a while. Who knew how long?  
  
And for a wonder, he did. Helped her to her feet and walked her there without a word.  
  
She fell into bed and slept the whole night through for the first time in weeks.  
  
And if there were dreams, she didn't remember them when she woke.  
  
_


	8. Mortal Ground 2 Chapter 8: Catharsis

CHAPTER 8: CATHARSIS  
  
Sudden problems shouldn't take away the startled memory.  
All in all, the journey takes you all the way.  
As apart from any reality that you've ever seen and known.  
Guessing problems only to deceive the mention,  
Passing paths that climb halfway into the void.  
As we cross from side to side, we hear the total mass retain.  
  
Down at the edge, round by the corner.  
Close to the end, down by a river.  
Seasons will pass you by.  
I get up, I get down.  
  
            ~Closer To The Edge II (The Total Mass Retain), Yes  
______________________________________________  
  
The first thing Spike thought when he heard the knock at the door of his crypt was that it was the damned Sylappha demons coming round again. Damned, bike-riding goody two-shoes, trying to sell their martyred ram God to him in tiny pamphlets and newsletters that promised answers to supposedly frightening questions like "_demons—are we bound for Hell?_", and delivered nothing but a reinforcing dose of God-induced fear. Beauty of capitalism at work, it was, playing on the fear of eternal punishment in the hopes of loosening the wallets of the masses. Because money; that was the way to the Promised Land, and they were like mini-travel agents, selling tickets door-to-door to a demon heaven no one really believed in. Kind of like every other religion in existence.  
  
He snorted and stormed towards the door, filled with loathing for organized religion, reluctantly leaving behind the melodramatic joys of daytime television _(whose bloody baby was Marilyn carrying, anyway?)_, determined to make them take him off their list of addresses. Ever since he'd gotten this sodding chip, they'd been—  
  
He yanked open the door, nasty diatribe about the particular bathing and mating habits of a certain ram God ready to launch—and stopped cold, staring dumbly at what he found on his doorstep.  
  
He glanced back and forth and blinked against the daylight just beyond the threshold. As if not quite convinced of what he was seeing, brows drawn together in a confused frown, he centered his vision on the person in front of him.  
  
"You… knocked?" Suspicious. Completely baffled.  
  
Faith didn't say anything, just stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, her body unwound from its taut posture, uncoiling like a snake, and she leaned one shoulder against the edge of the doorway, shrugging at him. "Isn't that what people do?"  
  
Spike found himself wishing fervently that he'd found a religious sermon on his doorstep instead.  
  
"People, yeah!" He snorted at the irony of her choice of words, then stopped, fixing her with a suspicious look again. "People." He reluctantly agreed. How many times had Buffy kicked in his door? "But not—" He cut himself off again, verging on confusion, and his expression shifted like quicksilver for the third time in less than half a minute. "What do you want?" Flat now, irritated, as if he wanted nothing more than to get back to his television, and in truth, he would rather be coasting through the ridiculous, unpredictable wiles of daytime soap opera's than deal with the ridiculous, unpredictable moods of this girl. In truth, he'd almost rather stick nails in his own eyes.  
  
Okay, yeah, they'd shared a sort of moment last night, but there was no need to go getting all Hallmark about it, was there? Never could stand to see someone he cared about hurt like—  
  
He cut the thought short and banished it to the deepest, darkest recesses of his mind. Stuffed it into a box marked "destroy" and made a mental note that that box was getting pretty full.  
  
"You gonna invite me in?" she asked almost flippantly, and—was that a glint of amusement?  
  
He glanced up at the sun, as if double-checking its existence. "You don't _look_ like you're bursting into flame," he said pointedly, then turned away from the door, moody. Bloody bitch knew she didn't need an invitation. What was she playing at? And why was he so annoyed, anyway?  
  
After a moment, she followed, taking a hesitant step over the threshold. He heard her push the door to, then turn back toward him, fingers brushing the shoulder of his duster.  
  
"Spike…"  
  
He spun on her, angular jaw set with sharp annoyance—and stopped.  
  
The attitude was gone. The one that proclaimed "I'm-a-bad-ass-bitch-don't-fuck-with-me"; the one he'd thought as inseparable from her as her bones. Her eyes were unmasked, glittering as they studied him in the dim light of the crypt, and he would swear she was looking _into_ him rather than _at_ him.   
  
What the hell did _that_ mean?  
  
"Listen…" She hesitated a moment, and her eyes almost skittered away. But at the last second, they held, seemed to grow determined. "Thanks. You know. For what you did last night," she tilted her head at him and her smile deepened just a fraction. It was a quirky, lop-sided smile, one of those smiles that was given tentatively out of fear of rejection, but it was genuine.  
  
"Right," he said slowly, still studying her, the words not quite penetrating yet.  
  
He saw the moment the shield went back up between them. Whatever response she'd been looking for, he hadn't given it to her. But it wasn't a huge distance, not like it had been before. Whatever had transpired between them last night, whatever was happening between them right now, it had brought them closer together in her mind.  
  
What about in his mind? Why _was_ he feeling so odd today?  
  
Deep in the storage bin of his memory, the box marked "destroy" shifted and spat out an unsavory tidbit. It stared at him with predatory eyes and hunkered down like a nightmare lying in wait.  
  
For the moment, he ignored it.  
  
"Yeah. Good thing I caught your fist with my face," he responded dryly. The retort didn't come out sounding half as nasty as it had in his head, but he supposed it was a damned sight better than standing here gaping at her.  
  
"Yeah…" she glanced away, tucking a lock of hair behind one ear as she often did when she was uncomfortable—which was frequent. "Sorry about that."  
  
Well… that left him speechless. _Write this down, kiddies_, taunted the bit of his objective mind that still remained. He hadn't known her long, but he got the feeling that she didn't apologize often—or possibly ever. This was weird, and only getting weirder.  
  
"Taken worse," he said with an indifferent shrug, letting it go. Something was definitely wrong here, and not just with her. He felt like he'd woken up in someone else's head. Someone's daft, indecisive, and possibly stoned, head.  
  
She seemed grateful to be let free of the awkward moment, regaining some of her usual swagger and took a few more steps inside the crypt.  
  
"Nice place," she commented, not quite looking at him as she approached the coffin at the crypt's center.   
  
This whole situation wasn't tracking for him at all. Screw the small talk. He wasn't going to let her get away that easily. "You seem awfully chipper for someone who fell to pieces last night," he observed.  
  
"And you seem awfully asshole-ish for someone who held me through it," she shot back, finally losing her patience.  
  
That look was back in her eye; that fierce look of uncertainty caught between need and hate. It had never been aimed so directly at him before, and he felt the weight of its responsibility settle uncomfortably on his shoulders. The protective veneer of her attitude was thin, so very thin, and he knew if he pushed, he could scratch through the surface, maybe do some permanent damage to the softness beneath.  
  
"Then why are you still here?" He could have hurt her, made her run, but he was actually curious.  
  
She wavered on the edge, and for a moment he thought maybe she was going to run anyway, and then her defense mechanisms kicked in and her cocky attitude returned like a shield.   
  
"Because I need your help."  
  
He considered her for a moment, brows raised, expression impassive. "You back in the game, then?"  
  
"Never left it," she replied with a grin and a shrug as she hopped up on top of the coffin.  
  
"And what makes you think I'm gonna help you?"  
  
She lifted her hands and spread her arms. "Aren't we friends?" Her tone was cocky, but he thought he heard something else beneath it, something deeper and more concerned.  
  
"Bloody _hell_, no!" He spat, annoyance bursting free in his disbelief.  
  
She looked him calmly up and down a moment. "Is this like that 'you'll never be friends' speech you gave Buffy and Angel?" She asked the question almost mockingly, but her eyes still glimmered with interested amusement, as if she truly wanted to hear the answer. "'Cause if it is…" She jumped down off the coffin and stepped close to him, stalking him, preying on him until her face was inches from his own. "I think we're missing out on the benefits of not being friends." She ran one finger down his chest, following it with her eyes.  
  
He glanced down at her finger, then looked back up at her face. The nightmare tidbit in the back of his mind shifted, digging its claws in just a little deeper.  
  
"How do you know about that?"  
  
"You told me when we were drunk, remember?" she asked with a grin. "Told me lots of other things, too. Nasty things. Actually _did_ a few nasty things to me…" She took another step closer, and he could feel her breath on his lips. "Or did you forget that part, too?"  
  
Oh no, he hadn't forgotten. Neither had other parts of his anatomy.  
  
"This routine is getting old, Slayer," he said, affecting boredom. "Either fuck me or beat the hell out of me, pick your poison."  
  
She held his gaze a moment longer, then backed up a step and smiled, shrugging. "Love to. But I'm a little short on time here." She gave him a look that he couldn't decipher. "So what do you say? Let's be friends instead." She threw the idea out whimsically, as if it didn't matter at all. He knew her well enough by now to know that meant it mattered a lot. "You in?"  
  
He thought about arguing with her. Thought about giving her a hard time and making her work for his help… but in the end, for reasons he couldn't even begin to sort out, he only nodded and gave her an appraising look.  
  
"What are you on about?"  
  
For an instant he saw gratitude in her expression, but only for an instant, and then she was all business. "I'm looking for something in a magical shade of peyote." Her grin grew broader, darker.  
  
"Peyote?" he laughed, condescending. "What do _you_ know about peyote?"  
  
"Hey." She frowned slightly at his tone. "I saw Young Guns."  
  
"Oh yeah. _There's_ an accurate representation." He rolled his eyes.   
  
"Whatever. I don't care what it is," she bulldozed on with an irritated shrug. "I just need what it does."  
  
He blinked once as he considered that. Did she mean--?  
  
"_You're_ looking for a spirit quest?" He couldn't keep the surprise from his voice.  
  
"Actually… I'm looking for a vision." Deep brown eyes flicked up to meet his, their gaze steady, and for a moment, he had a fleeting impression of dark granite shot through with crystalline veins, beauty inseparable from hardness.  
  
"A vision of the future."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
They made their way through the sewers in silence, boots scuffling, jackets rustling, unspoken words hanging heavily between them. Faith wasn't sure what his deal was, but she was trying not to think too much about it, chalking it up to the vampire's usual moodiness. At least he _had moods. That was refreshing change of pace for vampires in her life. Better for him to be annoyed with her and obvious about it than for her to wonder what was going on behind silent eyes.  
  
Angel… she tried not to think about him either, but she found, often when she was silent or alone too long, that her thoughts slipped inevitably in his direction. She wondered where he was, what he was thinking… if he was ever going to come back. And if he did, would she want to see him? Would she be able to stand being around him, the way she felt? And how __did she feel exactly? That was another thing she tried not to think about too closely. It seemed there had always been a lot of things like that. Issues to avoid, to disassociate herself from when they became too painful. But things were different now, weren't they? Were they? With the apocalypse on its way and her role in it specified if not defined, all those things suddenly seemed less important. And somehow, at the same time, they seemed more important than ever. As if she felt her last chance to set things right was slipping from her hands. Time was running out, maybe forever, and she found herself longing more than anything for just a little more.  
  
"Why are you doing this, Slayer?" Spike's brittle voice intruded upon her thoughts, snapping her from her reverie.  
  
"The vision thing?" she asked, not sure what he meant.  
  
"No, the bloody cha-cha," he snapped, rolling his eyes. "Yes, the vision thing."  
  
I…" She hadn't thought too deeply about that either. She'd been running on instinct more than anything. Had woken with the need to move forward and do something, find a way to take control of what was beginning to unfold. "I need to know what's coming."  
  
He arched a brow at her, as if questioning the sincerity of her answer. "So you can know which way to run?"  
  
"So I can fight it." The reply popped out before she'd even had time to think about, but now that she'd said it, it sounded right.  
  
He stopped walking, turned and faced her. "Made up your mind, have you? Ready to go into the glory of battle and die like a good little soldier?"  
  
He sounded like he was mocking her, but she wasn't sure, because there was something else in his voice that she couldn't identify. "It's… it's what I have to do."  
  
"One little breakdown is all it takes to make the difference, hey?" And now he was being completely snide. "One little crying jag and you're all healed and ready to become the savior of the universe?" He snorted, face laden with derision.  
  
His words cut into her with the force of a knife, twisting in her gut and burning, forcing words from her in a scathing stream. "What the fuck is your problem, Spike? One day you're all 'she's not heavy, she's my Slayer' noble boy, and the next you're a complete prick. Can you pick a fucking lane? What's your damage?"  
  
He laughed, certainly mocking her now. "Oh, right. Yeah, that's rich. Let's make this all about Spike. Don't want to have to look at ourselves for a second now, do we?"  
  
She stared at him in dumbfounded, open-mouthed rage. "What the hell do you want from me? I'm actually trying to make a decision here, do something right, and I've got handicapped-vampire-guy giving me shit? What is this? If you don't want to help me, then _say_ so. Or are you gonna go all Angel, 'guess that emotion in three notes or less'?"   
  
"If I was gonna 'go all Angel' I wouldn't be here at all, now would I?" he contradicted her with a smug smirk.   
  
She stared at him, furious, hardly believing he'd said that. Her fist clenched and unclenched, fingers flexing with the urge to hit him… and then she turned on her heel. "Screw this."  
  
He grabbed her by the arm and spun her around, and for a split second she was face to face with him, eyes bare inches from his, lips so close she could…  
  
She shook him off and pulled away violently. Turned again and began stalking off, legs feeling as unsteady as the emotions that beat and burned inside her breast, angering her, confusing her.  
  
"Oh, yeah. Run away. _That_'ll bloody help."  
  
She couldn't help it. She stopped and spun on him, pointing at him with a hand that was very nearly a fist. "I'm _not_ running away! And in case you didn't notice, A.D.D. boy, I _was_ asking for help." A noise of frustration erupted from deep in her throat, sarcastic and knowing, and she shook her head at the sound, emotion draining from her face as she realized what a fool she'd been. "I don't know why I bothered." She threw the words at him like a dagger and turned away again.  
  
"So you're gonna let the first thing that gets in your way stop you? Yeah, you're trying _real_ hard." He snorted his opinion on that. "Come on, Slayer. I can still smell the fear on you. You're still on the fence, and if you go off half-arsed trying to do this, you'll get us all killed for sure. You might be able to sell the others this reformed, Wonder Woman routine, but I know where your head is, know what you're feeling. You're _not_ ready for this."  
  
Her head lolled back as the words hit home, almost as if he'd struck her in the back of the neck with them, and she heaved a sigh. She didn't turn, wrapping her arms around herself as she considered. _Was_ she ready?  
  
"I…" She thought about berating him, screaming at him, telling him he didn't know jack. "Maybe you're right." The words tumbled out, unbidden, and she paused, pained by the admission. "But I have to try. I have to know what's coming so that I…" she trailed off, unsure how she'd meant to finish the sentence. God, she hated this. Hated this whole stupid melodrama with a burning passion.  
  
"So you can decide?"  
  
She closed her eyes, bit down on her lower lip. Nodded. "Yeah." She grimaced against the pain and drew a deep breath, trying to collect herself. She was __not going to break down again. "If… if things go down like Tenth said… I could be more of a danger to them than a help. I can't let that happen."  
  
Silence behind her, utter and complete. Then a scuffling sound as he took a step nearer to her, a hesitation as he drew breath he didn't really need, and she could almost imagine him standing there behind her, angular, handsome face strained and concerned, from angry oppressor to understanding in a moment's time, and dammit why did he have to be so much like her?  
  
"Do the others know?"  
  
She thought of the Scoobies, locked in the shop pouring over their books, their faces sad and worried in her mind. "I called Giles. Told him I… needed time."  
  
"Time for what?" he asked, voice sharp as his mood swung back once again. "To take a peek into the future, see if you're going to be a hero before you decide to try? No point in trying unless you're going to come out on the winning side, is there?" he mocked with biting sarcasm.  
  
"God, I hate you," she said slowly, voice quiet.  
  
"No need to flatter me, Slayer," he chided with a lighter brand of sarcasm. "Just doing my job."  
  
"Is that what you were doing last night?" she asked with a sneer. "Your _job_?"  
  
Silence again.  
  
And again, she could imagine him there, confusion etched into his features as he considered that, too thrown by the implications of her question to respond instantly.  
  
"Look. Spike. I…" She hesitated on the verge, not quite willing to take that last step over the edge, and then plunged. "I don't know what's gonna happen. Hell, I don't even know what's going on." She interrupted herself with a bitter laugh. "With me, the Scoobies, with Angel or… me and you." And there it was, the thing that had been hovering between them all day like a leaden weight, out in the open. She turned toward him, no pretense now, the circumstances of the last few months pushing her to honesty, and God she loved the feeling, like a raw, ragged freedom, emotion spilling from her without filter. "But I want to try and figure it out. I _need_ to do this. And I don't think I can do it alone." Fuck, but that hurt to admit. But she wasn't going to stop herself now.   
  
Her voice rose an angry notch, taking on a slight accusatory tone as she went on. "Maybe there _is_ something going on between us, but right now, I don't have time to figure out what it is. I need to know if you're with me or not."  
  
His mouth worked, opening and closing as he tried to find the words to convey his shock and outrage. "You bloody wish!" he began heatedly. "You don't _need_ drugs, Slayer, you're already—"  
  
"So that's why you sat there with your arm around me last night?" she interrupted with a superior tone. "'Cause you hate me so much? God, you're acting like a college boy on the morning after! Yesterday I knew I could count on you, today I have to ask. Too emotional for you, Spike? Fine. Get out. Run while you can. I don't _need_ this crap right now. What I __need is someone to back me up." She leveled him with an intense gaze. "You're the only person that's been there besides Angel, and he's gone now. Giles cares, but he's too close to the others. And if you won't help me, I'll do it alone… but… I don't know if I can—"   
  
She cut herself off, the emotion finally becoming too much at last, lowered her eyes and pressed her lips together against the tide. How sad was she, telling this bastard vampire that she needed his help—that he was the only thing she had even _resembling_ a friend? Rock bottom baby, oh yeah.  
  
His eyes widened slightly, surprise reflected in his features, and he looked at her as if he might have been seeing her for the first time. "I _am_ helping you."  
  
"Then act like it," she snapped. "Because I don't have time for this shit."  
  
"You don't need me," he told her, completely serious, and she heard the finality in his voice.  
  
_You don't need me_, the sound of Angel's voice echoed in her memory.  
  
She blinked once, letting her eyelids lay closed a moment while the feeling washed over her, then snapped them open with defiant anger.  
  
"Right. Sorry I bothered you." She bit off the words and turned away for the third time.  
  
And again, he took her by the arm, more gently this time, turning her resisting body back with subtle ease.  
  
"I didn't say I wouldn't help you."   
  
"Didn't say you would, either," she countered, voice taut, challenging.  
  
He let go of her arm but didn't step back from her. "That's why we're here, isn't it?"  
  
"Is it? Why Spike?" she asked pinning him with her eyes. "You wanna get down and dirty, let's go all the way. Why have you ever helped me at all?"  
  
Hell of a good question, he thought, and almost smirked at her ability to continually stump him with what should have been, relatively, very simple questions. Why _had_ he helped her? Why had he helped Buffy? Buffy was simple enough, he supposed… he'd loved her… but it was more than that wasn't it? It was all about the middle ground he'd discovered since he'd been implanted with this chip. The gray area. Vicious killer instincts somewhat curbed, smitten with the Slayer and fighting on the side of good, he'd had a chance to see things from the other side, and once that was done, there was rarely ever any going back. Much as he hated to admit it, he cared about what happened to this world, and only in part for what he selfishly took from it. Okay, granted, the _larger_ part was that, but still, there were other things. Maybe he even cared about what happened to her. And possibly, just possibly, cared about what happened to the others, as well. A remote possibility, and an exceptionally stupid one at that, but it existed, nonetheless. That was something he wanted to face even less she wanted to face _her_ fears. And damn her for bringing it all home to him, for making him know beyond a doubt that he was changed.  
  
And how could he find the words to explain it all?  
  
And then he laughed aloud, startling her with the sound of it as it echoed off the concrete sewer walls. Of course that was it. It was simple and true and it stuck in his craw, digging at him like a thorn in his side. He hated it, and he hated her for bringing him to the truth of it.  
  
"Because I'm as bloody buggered as you are, pet," he replied, still laughing at the irony of it. "Bloody buggered as you."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Spike's crypt was utterly silent, candles burning high and bright in lieu of actual daylight. The flickering light cast strange shadows all about, painting the room in a gothic vision of stone and architecture, the pale blond vampire slouching moodily in one corner the final, perfect touch in the haunting masterpiece.  
  
Atop the stone coffin at the center of the room, Faith sat, legs crossed, painted just as beautifully though she didn't know it, looking somewhat anxiously at the small bit of organic matter in her hands. It hadn't taken much for Spike to find what she needed once they'd gotten through their little drama. She hadn't thought that it would. A visit here, a phone call there, and boom, there she was with her own questionably tasty ticket to take a trip on the magic bus. A spirit quest slash vision of the future inducing edible bit of organic material that would probably make her toes curl when she tasted it.  
  
She glanced up hesitantly at Spike, dark eyes meeting blue.  
  
"You sure about this?" Spike asked.  
  
"Is that concern I hear?" she countered, teasing.  
  
"Just don't want you going into convulsions and sicking up all over my place." He shrugged, seeming nonchalant, and if she didn't look at him too closely, she could almost buy it.   
  
"I promise, if I have a seizure I'll try to do it quietly." She gave him a wink to go with the sarcasm, and lifted her hand, looking at the grayish, faintly sticky lump in her hand. "Bottoms up," she said with a shrug, and tossed the lump into her mouth.  
  
It was bitter, dry, and tasted of old, moldy closets. She grimaced and forced herself to bite down into it, flinching as the disgusting flavor burst from the lump in a flood of earthy excrement. Her saliva glands contracted, then released and made moisture with haste, doing their best to stave off the hideous flavor. She gathered it on her tongue, and blanching, swallowed.  
  
"Fuck," she gasped, blinking hard as she opened her eyes. "You don't have anything to drink around here besides blood, do you?"  
  
He looked at her for a moment as if debating, then turned and stalked to the small refrigerator.  
  
"Oh, sod off," he spat, becoming defensive when she eyed the little bottle he produced with a look of disbelief. "Evian was all they had. I only use it for tea, anyway."  
  
She rolled her eyes and gave a snort of laughter, reaching out for the bottle with eager hands. "I don't care if you use it to baptize babies. I haven't tasted anything that bad since—"  
  
Her fingers, which were clutched tightly around the bottled water, suddenly clenched, broke through the plastic and sent the contents spraying in every direction, covering everything in cold wetness.  
  
Surprised, water dripping from his face, Spike took an uncalculated step backward and blinked. "Slayer?" And then he leaped forward, grabbing Faith's hand as she fell backward, nearly toppling from the stone coffin. "What the bloody hell--?"  
  
But she was gone. Gone baby, gone.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
The world fell away in sweet, colorful waves, washing over and through her with blessed wetness, cleansing the pathways of her mind and body, sweeping away the needs of flesh and the immediacy of emotion. She thought she might have laughed, but perhaps it was only the rain of sound bubbling all around her. The world carried her a moment more, then fell over the edge of the horizon like the swollen, setting sun. Night fell, and for a moment there was only blankness, an instant of no identity, or care… and then she was rushing forward, pushed forcibly through space and time. Further from her life, from her mortal shell, from everything that seemed to matter so much. She felt blessedly free, unshackled from her fragile, human emotions, freed of her fleshly prison, frail in the end, for all its supernatural strength.  
  
She opened her eyes and found herself in the barren wastelands of the desert, clothed now in spirit flesh that itched and irritated, bright white grains of sand so reflecting in her eyes, so blinding she could hardly stand it. Ahead, in the distance, she could make out tangled strands of black slowly coming into focus as the creature they were attached to came closer.  
  
"So," whispered the First Slayer in her gravelly voice. "You would see?"  
  
For a moment, she knew total clarity, was completely aware of __everything, as if this place allowed her a perspective denied her in waking life.  
  
"This is where I came from, isn't it?"  
  
"You think you know. Who you are, what's to come. You haven't even begun."  
  
Head on fire, she slipped from her skin with shiver of delicious enjoyment. "It's just the drugs", she replied blithely, and then felt herself propelled forward like a rocket, once again substance without form.  
  
Silence.  
  
She opened her eyes, eyes that didn't exist here. Whatever this place was, it wasn't where she had been. This place was tumbled in confusion, shards of understanding and fragments of knowing. Images passed by and through her as if she were a ghost, moving so quickly she could hardly see them.  
  
With an effort, she intensified her grip on the things around her, forcing herself to slow, to focus. This was… important. This was why she'd come.  
  
Snap! She was made flesh again, but not her own flesh. Somewhere outside of her, a voice spoke in heavy tones, invoking words of power, words she didn't understand, but nevertheless felt the intent of. Dark, evil, wanting… and they were coming from her mouth.  
  
Her hands outstretched she called upon vile deities to fulfill her wish for power, drawing forth something wicked and evil that had lain buried, forgotten beneath the earth for centuries.  She saw someone… someone she had loved once, before the terrible pain came, before the power had come. They cried for her to stop and she couldn't, filled with the living hatred of her rage, the feelings so strong they had become a form unto themselves, moving her in ways she had never imagined. She had to make it stop! They didn't know! Didn't understand! And she stretched out her hands, as if to embrace the person before her… and sent bolts of killing rage into their insubstantial form.  
  
Snap!  
  
Blood dripped in streaming rivulets from slashed wrists that were not hers… but somehow were, and for a blurred moment she shared two perceptions at once. And then she was pushed back into her own body as the earth itself seemed to gibber in uncomprehending terror, the ground trembling beneath her feet, screaming in the pain of birth as it pushed out something hideous and unthinkable, it's bald, bat-like face leering at her evilly as she stepped up to combat it. Talons wrapped around her throat, choking her with fire, and she struggled to fight back as the world slipped away again, sliding into darkness as the thing killed her, and she understood that she had been right, she couldn't do this alone—  
  
Snap!  
  
The bodies of all the Scoobies lay in disarray all about her, their broken, twisted limbs and blood a sight of joy. Angel's tortured face stared up at her, gasping, pleading silently, and she shoved a stake through his heart, sending him to the same fate she'd already sent Spike, sealing her treachery with a final kiss. Her own dead face stared up at her from the pile of bodies, eyes filled with horror and betrayal, and she raised her fists triumphantly to the sky and brayed maddened laughter, knowing that at last she was truly free—  
  
Snap!  
  
Her lips split in a horrid grin too wide for her face as she grabbed Willow's neck and snapped it, laughing at the ease—  
  
Snap!  
  
Angel cried out, his body limned in bright white flame, his arms outstretched to her as he burned and writhed in agony—  
  
Snap!  
  
Her own face stared back at her, shocked, light fading from her eyes, and she looked down and saw her hand, knife buried to the hilt in her own dying breast—  
  
Snap! Snap! Snap!   
  
The images flew by, too fast and too hurtful for her to hold and she turned, an imagined moan slipping from her as she grasped desperately for something to hold onto, something she could comprehend!  
  
Snap!  
  
She stood before a mirror, somewhere calm, somewhere comforting, somewhere she could take a moment and breathe and understand. A face, her face, stared back at her, scared, cold, alone, and she favored it with a pitying glance, unable to feel the sorrow she should have. Was she even human? Who knew? Who could tell? She giggled, a cold and frightening sound in this quiet room, and it startled her into understanding, into knowing—  
  
A demon peered back at her from the mirror; its features mingled with her own, and bared its teeth in a welcoming grin.  
  
Snap!  
  
The colors and sounds streamed past her, too fast and strong to be understood and she was swept away by them, caught in their inevitable current. She felt her awareness sliding away and she struggled to surface—but the pull was too strong and she went under at last, drowning in sensation, drowning in sounds and sights of horror she could hardly comprehend—  
  
And there was more. Oh, so much more.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"Slayer?" Spike asked with more concern, shaking her prone body worriedly. "Slayer!"  
  
Her eyes opened, rolling back in her head, and she laughed, a terrible, keening laugh, unlike any he had ever heard outside of his nightmares.  
  
"We're all going to die," she proclaimed with delirious, horrific wonder. And then she slipped back into the trance, eyes and mouth closing, leaving him with a feeling of dread deeper than any he could remember.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Time passed, and at last Faith shifted from her murmuring trance state, beginning to lapse into a semblance of peace as the drug wore off.   
  
Spike sat and watched throughout, and wondered over and over again why in the hell he'd agreed to do this in the first place. Her laughter still lodged in his spine, sunk deep with icy claws that made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Whatever she'd seen, it hadn't been pretty, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know.  
  
Seizing the moment, the nightmare tidbit crept to his forebrain, unbidden and unrealized.  
  
He'd told her he was doing this for the same reasons she was. Didn't want the world to end, now did he? But now, watching over her, her dark hair a spill around her pale, tired face, he wondered if that was the only reason. She'd hit on something earlier, when she'd mentioned… whatever it was going on between them. He didn't know what it was anymore than she did, didn't like it, didn't want it… but he did feel connected to her in some way, and it seemed to have less and less to do with his love for Buffy, and more and more with who this girl was.  
  
Maybe he was—  
  
Faith moaned and shifted on the coffin, snapping him back to reality.  
  
The tidbit squealed in annoyance as it was kicked into place at the back of his mind. It curled up, resentful, and glowered at him, biding its time.  
  
Was that all of it? Maybe not. But it was all he was willing to deal with right now.  
  
He returned his attention to watching Faith, sensing that her journey was coming to an end.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
When it was over, she whispered for him to take her home, let her rest.  
  
To his chagrin, he found he was happy to have her gone.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
The night passed fitfully for some, but for Faith, it passed with a sense of sweet and quiet bliss she would hardly remember or appreciate.  
  
And when it was over, for the first time since she'd come to Sunnydale, Faith awoke feeling refreshed. She felt calm, clean, somehow, as if the drug had flooded her head, scoured the stained hallways of her mind and cleared the junk from its cluttered corridors.  
  
The cool, pale light of early morning filtered in between the curtains, giving the room an ethereal glow, and she realized that she must have slept more than thirteen hours straight. Startled, she sat up abruptly, black sheets slithering from her body in a wave of silk—and came face to face with Buffy's sea-green eyes.  
  
"Are you sure you're ready for this, Faith?"  
  
Faith stared at her a long moment in silence, unsurprised by the former Slayer's appearance, then glanced away with a slow nod. "I have to be."  
  
Buffy moved to sit next to her on the bed, and Faith scooted away slightly, mistrustful. Buffy only smiled at her though, golden face glowing, eyes warm and happy in a way they'd never been in life. She leaned down and dipped her hand into a battered, old, tan leather bag, fingers bringing up thick, sandy mud. She held her mud-filled fingers before Faith's face, looking at her with an expression that bordered on grave, though her girlish beauty and warmth still shone through.  
  
"It's just ceremonial," she said as if to reassure Faith. "You know, to make it official."  
  
Faith gazed at her, untrusting, for a moment more, then closed her eyes. She felt Buffy's fingers paint swirls and lines over the curves of her face, careful to avoid her eyes and mouth, gritty mud—desert mud—scraping the skin in gentle strokes that caused it to tingle. It felt solemn and warm and intimate all at once, Buffy's fingertips touching her so gently, with love and reverence that spread from her into Faith with a quiet, golden glow, connecting them, drawing them together in a feeling Faith could only imagine existing between mother and child, or sisters. The images her fingers painted in Faith's mind were tranquil and intangible, like endless sheets of rippling white silk, and for a moment, the dreaming Slayer knew absolute peace. For a moment she knew her purpose, knew her mind, and was at ease with it.  
  
A single tear rolled down her cheek, and though she couldn't feel it through the layer of heavy mud, she knew instinctively the moment that Buffy's fingers passed over it, massaging it lovingly into the sand, not erasing it, not denying it, but making it part of her.  
  
"There."  
  
Faith opened her eyes, and Buffy sat back, smiling. "It won't fix everything, but it gives you a better chance."  
  
"What?" Faith frowned, confused.  
  
"Don't you feel it?"  
  
She did feel _something_… that odd sense of being connected to Buffy hadn't subsided. The feeling of being joined still pulsed and throbbed in her veins like a low level electrical charge. It made her feel whole, healed somehow, as if she were no longer alone and was somehow saved by that knowledge.  
  
Buffy's smile turned radiant, as if she saw the understanding in Faith's eyes, and for an instant, the light shining in from the parted curtains flashed a brilliant white, blinding her with cool serenity.  
  
Faith blinked and smiled, feeling as if she were surfacing, the laughter of the young and guileless echoing in her ears like ghosts of memory. The white light streamed away in rivulets and bubbles, revealing the room exactly as she had left it a moment ago, only now, Buffy stood by the window, back to Faith, staring out endlessly at nothing.  
  
"It's getting harder," she said, her voice hushed, and Faith felt a ripple of discord pass through her at the words. "To be here like this. There's not much of me left. But I had to come. Had to bring you this." She touched her face, and for an instant the colors of the world turned inside out, like a photo negative, and Buffy's face was covered in the same mud as Faith's. The image appeared and dissolved, quick as an eye blink, and then it was just Buffy standing before her again.  
  
Faith blinked, surprised, and shook her head with a rueful smile. "How much of this is the drugs?"  
  
"I don't know," Buffy shrugged. "Some of it. Maybe none of it." She hesitated, looking away. "I'm sorry you had to see all that, before."  
  
Faith tensed, remembering the visions all too vividly. "How much of __that was the drugs?"  
  
"Some of it. None of it." Buffy shrugged again with an enigmatic smile. "Maybe all of it."  
  
"Don't mean to be knockin' on you, B, since you're dead and all, but you're not being a big help here."  
  
Buffy winced at that, seeming troubled. "You're… I'm not…" she trailed off, confused, and then shook her head, seeming to regain her train of thought. "I'm sorry. There are only parts of me here. It's… hard to think." She frowned, expression becoming attentive again as she focused on Faith, eyes unreadable. "What you saw before… it all depends on what you decide."   
  
"That's what I was afraid of." Faith gave a ragged sigh.  
  
"You'll have what you need."   
  
There was a sadness and finality to the words that struck Faith with sudden, deep sorrow. "Will I see you again?" she asked.  
  
Buffy looked at her, eyes sad and resigned, as they had often been in life. "You have to be ready. You'll have to give your gift. I can't stop that. Everything's already started." She sounded distressed, mournful. "I won't be able to help you."  
  
"But you'll still be… here, right?" Faith asked, motioning vaguely at the room to indicate wherever "here" was.  
  
"You're going to have to let me go, Faith," Buffy said unhappily.  
  
"But—"  
  
"Shh," Buffy whispered, walking back over to Faith and putting a finger over her lips. Again, Faith felt that delicious warmth, like the glow of a candle emanating from her touch. "The parts of me that matter are still here. Here." She moved her hand down to touch Faith's chest above her heart. "And here." She touched Faith's forehead. "Remember that."  
  
"This is all I have left to give you." She held out her hand and placed a stake into Faith's. Faith gazed down at it and watched as it shimmered and stretched, transforming; stake, ancient stone dagger, wooden stick with symbols carved into it, stake again. "I can't use it anymore."  
  
"Don't go," Faith pleaded, looking up at her.  
  
"Close your eyes." Buffy smiled sadly.  
  
Faith closed her eyes, wanting to say more, but unable to find the words that might halt this moment, take it back from Time's eager clutches.  
  
Buffy leaned down and kissed her lightly on the forehead, in exactly the same spot she had touched her a moment ago, and the white light grew again, expanding and exploding like a supernova, carrying her into infinity.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
For the first time since she'd come to Sunnydale, Faith awoke feeling refreshed. She felt calm, clean, somehow, as if the drug had flooded her head, scoured the stained hallways of her mind and cleared the junk from its cluttered corridors  
  
The cool, pale light of early morning filtered in between the curtains, giving the room an ethereal glow, and she realized that she must have slept more than thirteen hours straight. Startled, she sat up abruptly, black sheets slithering from her body in a wave of silk—and came face to face with Buffy's sea-green eyes.  
  
"Are you sure you're ready for this, Faith?" Buffy asked.  
  
Except that she didn't. Not really. The words echoed in her mind, but the head of the Buffy-bot sat wordless on the shelf where she'd put it, staring back at Faith with dull, lifeless eyes, its expression blank.  
  
Faith stared back at it for a long while, thinking.  
  
At last, she pushed aside the sheets and rose from the bed.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
She didn't spend a lot of time pondering the significance of the dream. She knew instinctively, somehow, what it meant. It existed in broad, emotional brushstrokes that defined nothing she could explain in rational terms. And yet, she understood it intrinsically. She didn't take time plan anything out, didn't think it through on any kind of deep level. She did as she'd always done and followed her heart—and she never doubted, because this was the clearest voice her heart had ever spoken to her with.  
  
For the longest time, she'd never believed that God, or Fate, or Destiny or any higher powers would waste their time trying to manipulate her life. If there was a power, a logic behind being Chosen as the Slayer, then it was one lost to nature and time, one she could never hope to fathom. Let others be fascinated by mysteries of the unknown; the maybes, the possibilities, the what-might-have-been's? As far as she'd known, she only had one life, and she was going to live it the way she chose.  
  
She'd loved that girl. That girl had embodied everything Faith thought of as free and happy, tied to no one and nothing.  
  
Too bad that girl had never existed at all.   
  
Eyelids widened and shaped by lines of blackest coal surrounded irises of deep brown that stared back at her with years of cynicism and dark humor. They studied with interest the slimming lines of her face, which were just passing beyond the roundness of youth into true womanhood, the sharp curve of her jaw becoming more pronounced, cheekbones more hollow. She ran a finger along the curve of her lower lip, which was painted dark as blackberries and made the contrast of her pale skin against her dark eyes and hair even more striking. Those stained, lustful lips pushed the careful balance of her face over the line, tipping the scales in favor of darkness and sin. Innocent and wicked, carefree and careworn, virgin and whore. Her face… the same face she'd looked at in the mirror for the last 21 years, exactly the way she remembered it in every detail.   
  
Perfectly painted, carefully expressed, poured into clothing that declared her rebel status without need for a second glance. She looked every inch the part of the character she'd been playing all her life.  
  
_"The outside is easy," the guttural voice of the First Slayer echoed inside her mind. "The inside is much harder to change."_  
  
She'd never been this carefree, tough girl that stared back at her from the mirror. The girl she'd been had never made a free decision in her life except to turn herself in to serve her time in jail. That girl had spent all her time at the whims of the universe, pretending to be apart from it. That girl had followed only the muffled voice of fear in her heart; had never recognized her place in the larger picture.   
  
Once, she'd accused Buffy of getting dressed up in big sister's clothes, but it was Faith who was clad in an outfit and an attitude two times too large. It always had been.  
  
She capped the eyeliner pencil and set it down on the sink, metal touching porcelain with a light clink that sounded to her like the ring of finality.  
  
She'd known for years who she'd wanted to be.   
  
Now it was time to find out who she was.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"Well, there's nothing in the Pergamum Codex," Giles declared with a sigh, shutting the book and leaning back in his chair.  
  
"I'm not having a lot of luck online, either," Willow chimed in, disgruntled.  
  
"It's actually good news," Giles explained, motioning to the Codex. "If it were in the Codex it would come to pass for certain. At least there's still a chance we can thwart it."  
  
"Do you really think there's an apocalypse coming?" Willow asked, curious. "I mean; it's not like we have any proof."  
  
"I think that Tenth is sincere enough about his Oracle, though how reliable she is, we can't know for certain. But that aside, I don't believe Faith would lie about such an instinct… especially since she's clearly so frightened by the idea of having to face this apocalypse."  
  
"Have you heard anything from her?" Willow frowned.  
  
"N-not since yesterday," Giles replied, adjusting his glasses, uncomfortable.  
  
"That doesn't bode well," Xander commented blackly, glancing up from his book.  
  
"No," Giles agreed with quiet reluctance. "It doesn't."  
  
"Okay." Anya glanced at them all, impatient to move on. "So no apocalypse stuff. Has anyone turned up anything about our variety vampire?"   
  
"Nada." Xander sighed.  
  
"No," Willow replied, moody.  
  
"Whatever this creature may be, I suspect it may be exceedingly rare. It may take us some time to find anything about it," Giles reassured them. "And there are multiple references to coming apocalypses to get through."  
  
"It's like a box of chocolates without a map. Only with less chocolate-y goodness," Xander added.  
  
"Perhaps we should—"  
  
Giles broke off as the door to the Magic Box flew open.  
  
Faith stood there, one hand on her hip, eyes uncertain but burning with determined fire as she surveyed everyone in the shop.  
  
"So." She licked her lips and gave a slow smile. "We gonna kick this thing's ass, or what?"  
  
_


	9. Mortal Ground 2 Chapter 9: Chrysalis

CHAPTER 9: CHRYSALIS  
  
Black   
The heart inside you   
The soul inside me   
The power of night   
Tis the answer for life   
  
I hold the keys to unlock your dreams   
Pleasures beyond this world has ever seen   
I am desire. I am control   
I am the light and darkness inside your soul   
I'm inside your soul  
  
~ Black, Jag Panzer  
______________________________________________  
  
Light dust floated and spun on the updraft created by the thick, orange candles that burned in a rough circle around the spell caster, her breath the vehicle of their movement. Exhale, inhale and forgotten, her eyes dropping to the paper spread out before her on the floor as the dust began to fall, settling upon its surface, invisible in the flickering light.  
  
Willow frowned within her five-pointed star and sighed. "I got nothing," she admitted moodily, staring down at the yellow dots moving around on the map. They reminded her of little blinking Pac-Man ghosts, chasing each other around mindlessly, just as erratic and twice as frustrating. "Lots of demons, but nothing special. And the locator spell couldn't home in on her at all." She looked up, accidentally catching Faith's eye, and quickly looked away over at Giles.  
  
The Watcher made a small thoughtful gesture and pushed his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. "Well, we expected this," he said, looking as if he were trying not to look disappointed. "We'll keep trying. Surely there must be… something."  
  
"Giles," she spoke up, earnest. "If you were my anchor we could try the other spell we talked—"  
  
"Willow," his voice was a weary warning.  
  
She was about to press him when Faith shifted her stance, clothes rustling and drawing Willow's attention. The Slayer turned her head toward Giles, expression contemplative as she folded her arms over her chest. It was clear she was struggling with whatever idea she was having, but she seemed determined to tell him, even though her eyes dodged the Watcher's as she spoke up.  
  
"Giles… I think she might be right. You up for being her anchor? Whatever that means?"  
  
"Faith, it's far too—"  
  
"Dangerous," the Slayer finished, and though she shifted as if she were uncomfortable, she met his eyes this time. "I know. But it's already been two days and we've got nothing. I think the apocalypse is gonna rate a little higher on the dangerous scale if we don't figure out how to stop it."  
  
Willow cut Faith a dark, cautious glance, reminding herself that the Slayer was simply trying to get the job done, not defend Willow—and hey, there was a mind-boggler! Faith, trying to do the job of a Slayer. Willow wasn't sure if she liked the change or not, but she grudgingly had to admit that Faith wasn't doing too terrible a job. So far. Like now. The Slayer seemed to be bending Giles' ear in a way she couldn't. Willow glanced back at Giles as if watching a tennis match, curious to see what he would say.   
  
But it was Faith who spoke again. "The Oracle said Blackwell has something to do with this apocalypse, Giles. She might be the only link we have. We have to do whatever we can to find her."  
  
Tenth sat nearby, bronze face mostly obscured by the dim light, and Willow could sense more than see the nod he gave.  
  
She thought about saying something, adding her own querulous push, but looking at Giles' face and remembering his reaction to anything having to do with her and magic lately, she decided silence might be the best approach.  
  
"I don't know if any of you understand what this kind of spell can demand of the caster."  
  
"What's the worst that can happen?" Faith asked, fatalistic and bordering on sarcasm.  
  
Giles eyed her, quite serious. "Calling on a planar creature for insight presents many dangers. First of all, the creature may decide to kill the caster."  
  
"Can it do that?" Faith asked, considerably sobered.  
  
"Certainly. You see, in order to speak with such a creature you must go into the plane where it dwells. The astral plane is the least dangerous of all, and the closest to our own world, but even there… if the creature that is called turns on the caster, it will be _far_ more dangerous than fighting a normal demon in combat. It's their realm, and often, their rules. Not only that, but when the caster is sent out from their body in astral form, they open themselves to all sorts of vulnerabilities." He paused a moment, gathered his thoughts. "For instance, your astral form takes its appearance from your mind; sometimes it can be quite different than the appearance you have on the material plane. It may show you aspects of yourself you don't expect. Also, things do not exist there as they do here. There may be nothing familiar or recognizable to the caster. Both of these things can result in terrible confusion. So much so that if the creature were to attack, the caster would be caught defenseless."  
  
"Yeah? And?" Faith prodded.  
  
"If the astral form is attacked, the damage will manifest itself in the body. If it is killed…" He let his eyes travel between Faith and Willow's, quite serious. "The body dies."  
  
For a moment they were both grounded by the seriousness of that.  
  
"So…" Faith said, slowly following that logic. "We just make sure we call on a nice, fluffy creature, right?"  
  
He sighed, as if disheartened but not surprised that they hadn't given up, and circled around the other side of the table, thinking. "We can certainly appeal to a kind deity to grant the spell, but beyond that…" he shrugged. "We simply have to hope that the deity will be appeased enough to send one of its own emissaries."  
  
"Well? How do we make that happen?"   
  
"Offerings… praise…" Giles made a vague gesture that suggested he wasn't certain that would be enough.  
  
"Okay, so we carve up a few chickens, maybe some lambs, burn a bunch of candles and dance widdershins naked 'til the Goddess gets a happy. Simple enough." Faith shrugged. Giles made an annoyed expression, as if he were about to argue with her, and she broke in before he could get going again. "Look, Giles, I don't want to put anyone in danger, either, but it's that or maybe we all die." She glanced over at the witch. "Willow knows that, too."  
  
Willow nodded once, still keeping her silence, watching, fascinated. It looked like Faith might actually talk him into it.  
  
Giles ran a hand over his jaw, steely blue eyes deeply troubled. The lines in his face created a telling landscape, formed with reluctance and indecision.  
  
"Very well," he agreed at last, voice resigned and tinged with regret. "I suppose we must."  
  
Willow folded up the map and bounced eagerly from the floor of the training room. "Don't worry Giles, it'll be fine. Besides, you're gonna be there to anchor me, right? Like…" she frowned slightly, searching for inspiration. "Like a human seat-belt!" she exclaimed, triumphant, her smile broad. "See? Completely safe."  
  
"I certainly hope so," he murmured, not sounding convinced.   
  
For a moment, his reply troubled her, and then she shook her head and let it go. Giles was a worrywart by nature, came with being British. She was a powerful, knowledgeable, talented witch with years of experience under her belt.  
  
What could go wrong?  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Xander followed in the swaggering footsteps of the blond, cocky vampire, feeling clumsy and gangly in comparison as they weaved through the tombstones in the graveyard. Sometimes he thought being undead must instantly imbue you with some kind of evil, innate coolness.  
  
Inside his mind, the late-night cheesy TV announcer guy who so often did running commentary on his life spoke up.  
  
"When you become undead, you'll receive your cool card. The Cool Card certifies you to be smooth, cool, cat-like and deadly above and beyond the laws of nature. In addition, when you join, you'll not only receive official member benefits, you'll also get mystique! Broodiness! Attitude! A sexy body! Whether you're freak or geek, becoming undead can make you into the man you always wanted to be! Yes, you'll be room temperature, but the women won't care. Yes, people will chase you around and try to kill you with stakes, but the Slayers won't because they'll be too busy trying to _get_ busy with your mysterious, black-clad booty! And that's not all! Act now and you'll receive this rebellious leather trench coat absolutely FREE! Still not enough? Well act now and we'll also throw in this swagger, at no cost to you. That's right! Absolutely FREE OF CHARGE! The only thing you'll pay for is your immortality, and all it will cost is your soul! It's easy! It's cheap! So become a card-carrying member of the undead today!"  
  
Call now to become one with Evil. Operators in hell are standing by.  
  
Sometimes, he thought his mind was a very strange place to live. And, okay, maybe he was being a little overly. It wasn't like his life was so bad. He had a great girlfriend, good friends, was an average carpenter that made good wages by day and superhero sidekick that fought exciting battles against evil by night. It wasn't like he was lacking for anything. He took a mental step backward, watched Spike move with deadly, unnatural grace and experienced a moment of envy, flavored with a hot dash of something he wasn't quite willing to define. Nope, not overly. In fact, not overly enough. Note to self—  
  
He realized quite suddenly that Spike had stopped walking. There was somebody up there… a woman? What, they were appearing out of the bushes now? Figured.  
  
He rolled his eyes, disgusted, and called out as he moved to catch up. "Hey Spike, we can take care of your social life la—"   
  
Whoa! Was the length of that dress even legal?  
  
"Cherry," the vampire greeted, sounding surly.  
  
But amazingly, she wasn't looking at Spike. Xander half-turned around, wondering what could be behind him that was so riveting.  
  
"He's cute," Cherry purred, edging around Spike a little more.  
  
Xander half-heartedly put a finger to his chest. "Me?"  
  
"He's off limits," Spike said in a voice that brooked no argument.  
  
"Why? Is he yours?" Cherry asked Spike, coy and playful as she eyed Xander up and down.  
  
"What?" Xander blurted, shocked. Nervous, high-pitched laughter escaped him. "No, no," he went on, casual voice sounding fake even to his own ears. "Just two guys out for..." what, Xander? You're gonna tell this woman you're out patrolling for vampires while you're walking around with one? "…for a moonlight stroll." Oh yeah, _that_ was better. "Not in a date way," he added hastily.  
  
Spike cut him a bemused sideways glance.  
  
"Well, if you're not Spike's, then…" she licked her ruby lips and took a stiletto-heeled step closer to him. "Maybe you'd like to be mine."  
  
"Enough, Cherry. Let the boy be," Spike broke in, sounding impatient. Of course he sounded impatient, Xander thought. Spike was always impatient when he wasn't getting what he wanted, and right now, _Xander_ was getting the attention.  
  
"I think the _boy_ can speak for himself, Spike," Xander said, taking a step forward and giving Cherry another look up and down. A warning bell chimed in the back of his mind, but it seemed faraway, distant, unimportant. There was nothing wrong with looking, was there? It wasn't like he was looking to date the girl, but it was nice to be the one getting a little attention for once. God, she was gorgeous. Not that Anya was any slouch, but this girl… Anya! The thought occurred to him like a life preserver to a drowning man. What would Anya think? He could imagine quite well what Anya would think, if she were here, she'd be… his eyes traveled back down Cherry's not inconsiderable assets, as if unable to help himself. The warning bell was a vague memory now, and the vision of Anya's anger seemed blurry. Anya wouldn't mind. She was a good girlfriend. Very accommodating. Mesmerized, he took another step closer to the succubus.  
  
Spike stepped between them again, putting his hand on Xander's chest, and Xander was seized by a sudden, inexplicable anger. It roared in his chest like a bonfire, demanding his fists to remove Spike from his path.  
  
"Harris. She's a succubus."  
  
"A wha?" His befuddled brain forgot the urge to hit Spike for the moment.  
  
Spike gave a heavy sigh. "A succubus. You know, kisses you, shags you, sucks the life out of you, kills you?"  
  
"Aw, come on, honey," Cherry cajoled in her silken voice, words intruding between Xander and Spike once again. "You're not gonna let a little thing like that stop ya, now are you?" She tipped Xander the sexiest wink he'd ever seen, and he wondered how she could keep her eyes open at all with lashes that thick and dark.  
  
Xander considered what Spike had said for a moment. Kissing, shagging…great! Okay, life sucking; not so much fun, death; kind of permanent. He put the items on his internal scale and weighed them for about half a second. "No, that sounds fair," he acquiesced.  
  
He started to walk around Spike again, and saw the vampire's morose expression.   
  
"Aw," he patted the vampire's shoulder, mock-comforting him. "What's wrong, Spike? Feeling the burn of the Harris charm?" he asked with a grin and puffed himself up.  
  
Spike's face worked through several difficult emotions, and finally he heaved a disgusted sigh and looked at Cherry, regretful and apologetic. "Sorry luv. Much as I'd love to, I can't let you eat him."  
  
Xander opened his mouth to make a hot retort—and got a fist full of Spike right between the eyes.  
  
The world wavered, then spun once and shut down completely.  
  
Spike grabbed his head and shouted in pain, then fell to his knees. When it subsided he cursed and stood, cutting the succubus a nasty look.  
  
"You and me, we need to talk. And make it quick. You need to be gone by the time he wakes up."  
  
"Sure thing, sugar." Cherry grinned, seeming unperturbed by Spike's reaction. "I don't wanna get in the middle of a lover's quarrel. You know, you boys sure are cute together," she confided with a wink. "Bad break up?"  
  
Spike glowered.  
  
"Okay, okay," she said, rolling her eyes. "What do you wanna know?"  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Four supplication rituals and an honorary "Sun Dance" later, Faith watched as Giles and Willow prepared for the spell and wondered if she'd done the right thing.  
  
Sure, she'd been kind of forceful with Giles, and her arguments had even made sense, but playing tough was easy. She'd been doing that her whole life. The sick, churning feeling in her stomach reminded her that she was taking responsibility for other people's lives now. It wasn't like playing the solo badass, where life and death revolved solely around her. She might not harbor any love for the witch, but she'd made this decision, and if anything bad happened to Willow… she didn't know if she could handle the guilt.  
  
Still, it wasn't like they had much choice. She bit back a sigh and thought of Buffy, wondering how the petite, perky blond had dealt with all of this on a daily basis. This whole Slayer gig, taken beyond simple killing, was turning out to be one hard choice after another, and she wasn't at all sure she should be the one making them. But again, it wasn't as if they had much choice. She was the one this whole thing revolved around, if what half of Tenth had said were true. They hadn't discussed it much, but she could see in their covert glances and hesitant words that they all thought Faith would be the one assuming the role of savior or destroyer. And given Slayer history, the predictions and her dreams, she was inclined to agree. And that meant making choices, no matter how tough they were.  
  
She just hoped they'd end up landing her on the side of saving.  
  
Willow and Giles moved to the center of the new sand circle they'd made on the floor, this one also five pointed, but interspersed with archaic symbols and crude depictions of the sun. The Watcher settled down, sitting Indian style, and Willow laid down in front of him, resting her head on an old, patterned pillow that looked as if it belonged on Giles' couch.  
  
"Now," Giles said, looping a makeshift necklace over his head. A large, clear crystal hung suspended at the end of it, and a bit of light swirled lazily in its milky depths. "This crystal you've imbued with your essence will keep us linked during your journey. If at any time you become frightened or anything should threaten you, you can use it as a focal point, like a beacon to follow back here."  
  
"And what happens if she can't?" Faith asked, trying to keep her concern from showing.  
  
"The energy in the crystal is still part of her, it's only borrowed. It will want to rejoin with her, and will lead me to her in the same way she can follow it back." His brows beetled together in a slight frown, and Faith found herself wondering if he were quite as sure of that as he sounded. "It should be fairly simple. It's… as much safety as we can have."  
  
"I still think we should have sacrificed a chicken," Anya said, sounding broody.   
  
"There's nothing that says the Sun God Shamash demands blood sacrifices," Giles said.  
  
Anya rolled her eyes and gave a dismissive shake of her head. "With the Gods it's almost expected, like a, a handshake, or," her face lit up with inspiration, "slipping them a twenty."  
  
"I fail to see how a dead, bloody bird could curry us omniscient favor."  
  
Faith couldn't resist. "Yeah, 'cause you shaking your tail feathers and rattling that gourd a little while ago? _That_ was sexy."  
  
"It's a traditional dance," he protested, almost petulant.  
  
The door to the shop opened and Xander staggered in, looking like he'd met with the wrong end of a baseball bat. A moment later, Spike strutted in behind him.  
  
"Xander!" Anya exclaimed, hurrying over to him. "What happened?"  
  
"Oh, nothing much," he said, voice flat and sarcastic as usual. "Spike decided to save my life by knocking me out."  
  
"Yeah, I feel just horrible about it," Spike said, sounding genuine.  
  
Xander did a double-take. "You do?"  
  
"Yeah, don't know what I was thinking, saving your hide," he replied cynically and strolled off, aloof, as if he had pressing business elsewhere in the shop.  
  
Xander took another step inside the shop and paused as his eyes fell on Giles and Willow at the center of the mystical circle.  
  
"So," he asked with forced brightness. "What's going on here?"  
  
"Oh, Willow's going to the astral plane and Giles is going to be her airbag," Anya explained. She gave a tiny look over her shoulder at them. "They're probably going to die."  
  
Giles had a rejoinder for that, but their voices fell away, distant and unimportant when Faith noticed Spike approaching her.  
  
"We have to talk," he said, sharp face intent.  
  
_Great._ "Is the world going to end?" she asked, only half-kidding.  
  
He hesitated.  
  
"Now? Today?" she specified with sarcasm, brows rising.  
  
"No."  
  
"Then it can wait 'til after the spell."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Cones of incense burned all around Willow, the ancient smells of myrrh and cinnamon mingling in an intoxicating whirl, allowing her to imagine the world in simpler times, when magic was commonplace and the pharaohs slept beneath the earth in silent shrines. She felt giddy and young, like the teenager she'd been not long ago, filled with restless energy and a sense of everything being new and exciting. Her heart pounded, its rhythm slightly accelerated with expectation and just a touch of tasting the forbidden. Everyone thought this was too dangerous, but she knew she could handle it. Still… she was grateful that Tara's studies had kept her from the shop tonight. If Tara knew what she was doing…  
  
Giles touched her hand; the signal for her to begin the chant.  
  
Her voice rose up, clear and distinct on the smoky air.  
  
_"Shamash, God of the Sun, illuminate the darkness that I might see,  
send a servant of your knowledge to bear your wisdom to me"  
  
_She felt something in the air around her shift and change, but before she could discern what she felt, Giles touched her again. Prayer to the Sun God complete, she began the chant that would carry her to the astral plane.  
  
"_Avos, ak chen neyaga, ish bin tith_. _Sha mal neya, evarl es na. Terzath, ech bal vaan e nayl chen neyaga."  
  
The heady smell of incense filled her senses, seeming to encompass her mind and expand it, lightening the weight of her brain, her head, her body, her limbs, until she felt as weightless as the smoke itself. There was a disorienting moment of duality as she felt a slight tugging in her chest, as if she were being drawn outside herself, her essence and awareness existing in two places at once—and then she was sucked out of her body as if by a mystical straw, traveling what seemed an infinite length _(a second? an hour? a year?)_ before being deposited in the ether.  
  
The impression of passing through the mystical tunnel remained, and her disjointed thoughts churned out random images and phrases _(down the rabbit hole)_ trying to place it. For a moment it was difficult to think, and she nearly panicked, but then the clouds cleared and she realized she could feel her fingers and toes again, body clad in… clothes? She reached down with her newly formed fingers and touched her newborn thighs, finding them encased in skin-tight leather. Her hands pulled away quickly, as if they'd touched fire, and she drew an involuntary breath.  
  
Giles had warned her that she might see aspects of herself she didn't expect, but she hadn't given it much thought. Usually, manifestation of self in other planes was based on self-perception, usually a combination of favored existing qualities mixed with desired qualities.  
  
So what, exactly, was she doing here in leather pants?  
  
_(I can't explain myself, because I'm not myself, you see?)_  
  
And just _what_ was with the annoying Alice in Wonderland theme her brain had picked for this little adventure?  
  
She didn't have time to ponder either question as the blackness began to lift from around her. Swirling shades of gray appeared from nothing and shot through the darkness, sprouting branches, sending out smoky tendrils in every direction like veins through marble. Their overlapping branches seemed to expand and become three-dimensional, bleeding into each other in loops and whorls, the swirling motions of the smoke never stilling for an instant. The light it was dim, but telling, showing nothing but blankness stretching out eternally in any direction. It was as if Willow stood on air in the middle of starless, whirling sky. Her stomach lurched in a moment of unexpected vertigo, and then she steadied herself, forcing herself to concentrate on why she was here.   
  
Suddenly, the wind picked up, lifting her hair from her head, and she squinted, trying to see in the dead light provided by the churning maelstrom of gray all around her.  
  
Something was coming…  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Willow's head turned on the pillow, and her lips moved as if she were speaking though no words came from her mouth. It was distracting and vaguely creepy, like a horror movie with the sound turned down.  
  
Faith watched Willow's movements, intent, examining the witch as best she could from this distance, searching for signs of distress. A moment later, Willow quieted, her head coming to rest, and Faith felt the tension in her chest ease a little.  
  
"She's in," Giles informed them, not sounding particularly happy about it.  
  
"Good," Anya spoke up, voice brisk and business-like. Her fingers turned and twisted at a small length of cord that had held together a clutch of incense only a few minutes before, and her eyes were too bright and wide as she watched on. "That means her head's not going to explode all over the floor, right?"  
  
"She should be fine, Anya," Giles reassured, looking at the ex-demon with gentle surprise, as if he were touched by her concern.  
  
"We just had these carpets cleaned," she replied, still sounding edgy. "It's going to be hard enough to get the sand out of them."  
  
"So good of you to be concerned." Giles cut her a sour look, then turned his attention back to Willow.  
  
"Those carpets were expensive," she said, indignant. "I had them imported from—"  
  
"Anya," Faith interrupted, not turning to look at the woman.   
  
"What?" A harsh, heavy sigh of impatience from the ex-demon.  
  
"Cram it."   
  
"Fine," Anya snapped, defensive. "I'm just… nervous." For a moment her face was open and vulnerable, and then she turned and irritated look on the Slayer. "What happened to _you_, anyway? You're all authoritative and annoying."  
  
"Yeah," Xander chimed in. "You were only gone two days. Did you raid the self-help section at the Psycho Slayer's R Us bookstore or what?"  
  
Faith considered that for a moment, eyes thoughtful and distant. "I had a… weird experience."  
  
"Did it involve peach schnapps and a ouija board? 'Cause if it did, I had that one too. Only I… uh… wasn't naked," he added, suddenly defensive and guilty.  
  
"Nope. Just drugs."  
  
Resounding silence.  
  
"It was more like an epiphany. Really."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
The chaos of light around her began to grow more brightly, and Willow's eyes widened as she saw the thing coming toward her.  
  
She couldn't see more than its face, couldn't make out what kind of body trailed behind, but if the size of its head were any indication… It was enormous, even more enormous than the Mayor had been when he'd turned into a giant snake. Its face was a mass of scaly plates that surrounded its bulbous, somehow cat-like face, peeling apart only to reveal jaundiced yellow eyes and teeth… so many teeth that it seemed its mouth shouldn't be able to hold them all, that they would cut its lips to ribbons if it tried to speak, each one of them looking silver and sharp as a needle.  
  
_Great, it's the Cheshire Cat._ Willow took a deep breath and backed away, terrified.  
  
And just as she was about to break and run and follow the silver cord back to where Giles and safety and sanity lay, the thing changed shape, its bulk suddenly shrinking, scales crunching as they were twisted into new shapes. A moment later, a vaguely humanoid creature with skin like an alligator stood before her, its head just a little taller than hers.  
  
"Sorry," the thing said in a voice that was eternally caught somewhere between a hiss and a purr and sounding as if it weren't the least bit sorry at all. "Didn't mean to scare you. It's a thing I do to impress the locals. You know how it is." The thing dropped her a sly wink and a grin that made its cat-like face look even more predatory, and Willow had to bite back an exclamation.   
  
_(Please would you tell me, why your cat grins like that?)_  
  
_And could you please make it stop?_ she pleaded with the fictional characters reciting dialogue in her mind.  
  
_(It's a Cheshire Cat, and that's why!)_  
  
Just being near it made her skin crawl. She felt dirty, as if its very presence were fouling her mind and body. And she got the distinct impression that this thing was only toying with her, like a cat with a mouse caught in its paws.  
  
_Yeah, that's me: little mousy Willow_, she thought with a stirring of rancor, and her burgeoning anger helped her find her tongue at last.  
  
"Th-the Sun God Shamash sent you?" she asked, managing not to stammer too badly.  
  
The thing examined its very substantial talons with an air of boredom before flicking one out at her. "You called, I came. Don't you like what you see?" A malformed smile twisted its features, and its jaundiced eyes seemed to leer at her knowingly.  
  
"Oh, n-no!" she replied, more defensive than was probably necessary. Flustered, her eyes fluttered everywhere around the creature as she spoke. "I—just, this is all different than I thought it would be."  
  
"It always is," the creature said with mock sympathy.  
  
"I—I'm l-looking for someone," she tried changing the subject.  
  
"I know why you're here," the creature replied, still sly and predatory, its razor sharp teeth bared in a grin too large for its face, suggesting that it knew things she did not.  
  
For a moment, she _felt_ like Alice. She'd tumbled down the rabbit hole to a strange, insane world where nothing made sense to _her_, but everyone _else_ understood what was going on. Why couldn't she have gotten some kindly, noble guide to politely point out the place on the map where she could find Blackwell?  
  
"Maybe the same reason you're wearing _that_," the creature said, gesturing at her body.  
  
Fear exploded again somewhere in the back of her brain and adrenaline flooded her limbs as she realized the creature could read her mind. She'd forgotten that she was here in her astral form. This all felt suddenly, terribly real. Giles had been right. This _was_ dangerous. One wrong step, one wrong thought or reaction, and her astral body would end up scattered from one side of this plane to the other. And her corporeal body would die soon after. All of these thoughts passed through her mind in the instant before the creature's words penetrated her brain with meaning.  
  
With a slow, fearful glance, she looked down at herself. In the presence of this thing, she'd forgotten the leather she'd felt earlier. It clung to her like second skin—in fact, she wasn't entirely positive that it _wasn't_ her skin, in this place. It fit every nuance and contour of her slim body, hugging every curve with dangerous, luscious ease.  
  
_(I'll stay down here till I'm somebody else)_  
  
"This isn't me," she murmured. "I'm not—" She shook her head, confused, then steadied, forcing herself to look up at the creature. _Remember; don't let it see how scared you are._ "They're just clothes."  
  
The thing laughed, a gurgling, warbling sound that made her think of dying cats and polluted rivers. "And the clothes don't make the man, do they, little witch? Look again."  
  
Unable to help herself, she looked down again. Okay, yeah, skin tight leather right down to the boots and wrists, but—  
  
Her breath froze in her chest. The leather ended at the line where her watch would normally be, and beyond it… Beyond it her skin was the deathly pale of a corpse left too long in water, sapped of all color and life. Dark purple veins crisscrossed the moon-colored skin, raised high and pulsing with some insidious life force that lived and breathed just beneath the thin exterior. Long black fingernails extended like claws from each bony finger, gray light reflecting dully in their opaque surface. She hitched in a breath to cry out—and just as abruptly as it had appeared, the image vanished, leaving her hand pale, but still pink, alive and _(ohthankhecate!)_ blessedly normal.  
  
For the first time, her fear began to blossom into something darker. Nothing about this was going the way it was supposed to. She wasn't supposed to look like this. She was supposed to have the upper hand. Be in control. This thing was _playing_ with her.  
  
"Why do I look like this?" she demanded, the stutter all but gone from her voice. "_You_ did this, didn't you?" She leveled the creature with an accusing glare.  
  
"There are none so blind as those who will not see." The thing grinned again, baring its razor-like teeth. "Did you think you'd remain blind when you called upon the God of illumination? You came here seeking answers, little witch. Looks like you found them." It looked at her, as if appraising. "They don't taste very good, do they?" it asked in a parody of being solicitous.  
  
"What are you talking about?" she asked heatedly. "Make sense! Make this stop or I'll—"  
_  
(we're all mad here)  
_  
"Or you'll what?" the creature asked, sly and knowing once again, and then it shrugged continuing mildly. "This place can only show you what already exists. There's nothing here that doesn't come from you."  
  
She felt as if she'd been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer. "What?"  
  
_(we're all mad here)  
_  
"For so powerful a witch, you understand so very little," the creature sighed, exasperated. "You must be severely repressed for your sense of self to show through so clearly yet be a surprise to you. I suggest some serious therapy when you return home." It paused, reflecting. "Oh wait. You won't be going home," it said as if the thought had just occurred to it.  
  
Anger forgotten, Willow took another step backward from the creature. "W-wait a minute. You said I created all this right? So that means I control you!" She affected a commanding posture, trying not to stumble over her words as she rushed on. "Stand down, demon, or I will rend you limb from limb!" Her tremulous voice echoed in her ears, trying for intimidating and only sounding nervous.  
  
"Close, but no cigar," it said with a bubbling chuckle. "Only your perception of me is created by your mind. _I_ am quite real, I assure you." It reached for her with ragged, black talons, teeth gleaming.  
  
"_Consisto__!_" she cried without thought, holding her hands up before her body.  
  
The creature didn't pause, its claws passing through her shoulders like knives through butter, grabbing her in a spasm of paralyzing pain.  
  
It laughed as it leered at her, breath a hideous barrage of dead smells.  
  
"Off with your head."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"Giles! What is it? What's happening?" Faith asked, frantic as Willow's prone body began to convulse on the floor.  
  
"I don't know," Giles snapped, terse as he lifted Willow's shoulders from the floor. He pulled his hands away almost instantly and stared in horror at the blood covering his fingers. It seeped through her white peasant blouse in vibrant crimson circles that were rapidly merging into a bloodstain of frightening size.   
  
"Figure it out!" Xander ordered, voice harsh and panicked.  
  
"I knew we should have used the chicken," Anya fretted, twining the cord tight around her fingers.  
  
Giles stared at the blood flowers for an eternal second as they blossomed, then his lips thinned and the frantic note in his voice was overshadowed by determination. "I'm going to try to pull her back out!"  
  
The Scoobies advanced as one, too pale, eyes wide and hands wringing, more nervous and afraid than Faith had ever seen them. She suspected that if she'd had a mirror, her face would have looked much the same.  
  
Giles began to chant with urgency.  
  
"_Avos, ak chen neyaga, ish bin tith_…"  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Willow felt the creature's talons skewer muscle and tendon, her body sagging within its grasp as her knees went weak and refused to support her. Pain like acid ran through her veins, radiating from the exquisite agony in her shoulder muscles, primitive signals screaming at her brain to shake loose, get free, escape!  
  
Weak. So weak. She should have known better than to come here. Hadn't Giles told her not to? She'd thought she was powerful enough, but he'd looked at her with those deep, wise eyes of his and told her that he knew better, and know she knew he'd been right. She wondered what her body was doing right now. Bleeding all over the store? Was Giles worried? Afraid for her? Furious because he'd been right?  
  
And as if in answer to her thought, Giles appeared in the swirling void of the plane.  
  
"Poor, weak, sniveling Willow," he commented, shaking his head as he took in the extent of her situation. "I told you that you couldn't do this."  
  
"Doesn't have enough sense to come in out of the rain, does she?" Buffy asked, appearing at Giles' side."  
  
"No, but we like to keep her around for laughs," Xander answered, smile cold and vicious as he stepped up beside Buffy.  
  
Willow could faintly see the gray swirls of light shining through their bodies, and knew that this perception only existed in her own fevered, dying mind.  
  
It didn't hurt any less.  
  
The creature's jaws came closer, rancid breath permeating her nostrils.  
  
"Idiot. She's going to let it kill her!"  
  
"It's like justice," Buffy said.  
  
"Sweet justice," Xander agreed.  
  
"I always thought she was exceptionally stupid," Giles admitted.  
  
"Don't forget pathetic." Buffy.  
  
"Do you know how hard it was finding a best friend that was even more of a loser than me?" Xander.  
  
Their voices overlapped and merged, rising in a violent crescendo that deafened her. "Ihadtopretendtolikeherwhydidshedresslikethatlikeasifbeinggaycouldmakeheranyweirderdidyouseewhatshedidshereallythinkshecouldbringmebackfromthedeadsuchaloserbigstupiddoeeyesthinkssheissosmartafraidofherownshadowhateherstupidinsipidweirdofreaknerdghastlyuglyinsecure…"   
  
A scream of fury rose from Willows chest, tearing from her lips in a stream of molten lava and shards of glass. The sound caught the creature in its grip and pulled it away from her, talons coming free of her flesh with thick, popping sounds, scaly form rising up into the ether. Bones crunched and shattered inside the creature's body as it was flung away from her, and screeching hisses escaped its toothy maw at ear-shattering volume.  
  
Why did everyone always underestimate her?  
  
Willow stood straight and cocked her head, first to one side, then the other, loosening her neck muscles. She rolled her shoulders, glancing at them as if to assess the damage, and smiled, looking gamely up at the creature suspended above her.  
  
The hair that blew around her face was black as night.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
As suddenly as they'd begun, Willow's convulsions ceased.  
  
Giles stopped the chant and looked around, surprised.  
  
"It worked!" Xander exclaimed, sounding relieved, and the rest of the Scoobies relaxed with an almost audible drooping of limbs.  
  
Faith frowned and watched Giles' expression, intent.  
  
"I didn't do it," he said with a shake of his head. "For a moment, I thought I'd found her… but when I tried to get closer I-I was shoved backward, as if by an invisible barrier."  
  
"Oh," Xander said, pondering that for a moment. "Well _something_ worked."  
  
Giles hesitated, then slid the material of Willow's peasant blouse off her shoulders.  
  
The pale expanse of her skin was whole, unbroken and unblemished, save the smears of red her blouse hadn't been able to absorb.  
  
"Yes," Giles agreed absently. "Something certainly did."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"There now. Good little demon," Willow said, indulgent as she stepped forward and patted the writhing creature on its head. She felt in good spirits now that its claws were out of her. So good, in fact, that she almost felt high. "We're going to have a nice little tea party and you're going to tell me everything you know, aren't you?" she cooed.  
  
The creature gave a weak, brittle laugh that dissolved in a harsh fit of coughing. "Kill… you," it wheezed.  
  
"Wrong answer," she replied, calm as she crooked her finger at the demon and pulled inward.  
  
The demon roared and twisted, the scales covering its belly bulging outward as if its intestines were eager to accept the invitation she'd just made.  
  
"How… are you… doing that?" it croaked, voice feeble.  
  
"Magic," she replied in a sly, singsong voice.  
  
"This is _my_ world," it protested, almost whining.  
  
"There, there now," she soothed, running fingertips over the rough scale of its face. "Shh. It'll all be over soon. Just tell me what I need to know."  
  
The creature choked out another laugh. "If you… can do this to me… you don't need my help."  
  
"Is that a no?" she asked, sounding almost hopeful.  
  
"No!" the demon cried quickly, plaintive. "I mean… you can find the answer… to what you seek… without me."  
  
Willow considered a moment, tilting her head to the side. Her eyes were two empty black holes, devouring the demon like a vortex.  
  
Then she brightened, smiling.  
  
"You're right. I don't need you anymore."  
  
She clenched her hand into a fist and the demon shrieked in pain.  
  
It became unspeakable.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Willow sat up with the force of a bullet, gasping for air, eyes wide and terrified as her fingers crushed the lush carpet in a death grip.  
  
"I can't! I can't stop! The… the…" she screamed, incoherent, unaware of the words leaving her mouth.  
  
"Willow!" Giles cried, putting his hands on her bloody shoulders. "Willow," he said more firmly, voice cajoling, trying to bring her back. "It's all right. You're back. You're here. With us."  
  
She stared at him, eyes still too wide and horrified, not recognizing the person she saw.  
  
"Willow!" He shook her once, hard, and her head snapped back so hard she thought she might have broken her neck.  
  
"Giles?" she asked, voice weak, eyes uncertain as she brought her head back down and looked around. "Oh, God! Giles!"  
  
She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him to her, eyes clenched shut against the horrible visions she still saw, face pressed against the comfort of his chest. After a moment, his arms came up, tentative as they held her.  
  
"There. It's all right, Willow," he said and patted her shoulder, awkward but reassuring.  
  
She opened her eyes, not quite willing to look at him yet, but beginning to believe him.  
  
In the forefront of her vision, she saw the crystal that still hung around his neck, the tiny piece of her essence that had allowed her to return.  
  
It had turned dark and black as sin itself.  
  
  
_


	10. Mortal Ground 2 Chapter 10: Reunion

CHAPTER 10: REUNION  
  
"Is this Horrible?  
Is this Horrible?  
It's the ugliness men, Mr. Horrible  
We're just trying to bug you  
We thought that our dreadfulness  
Might be a thing to annoy you with"  
  
But Mr. Horrible says, "I don't mind  
The thing that bothers me is  
Someone keeps moving my chair."  
  
            ~Someone Keeps Moving My Chair, They Might Be Giants  
______________________________________________  
  
"I know where she is," Willow said, hazel eyes large and haunted. "She's alive."  
  
Tenth rose instantly to his feet, bronze arms rippling and flexing with anticipation. "Where?"  
  
 "I…" she glanced around as if lost, looking for the puzzle piece she'd had just a moment ago.  
  
Giles also rose to his feet and shot the Brazilian man a reproving look as he reached down to help Willow rise unsteadily to her feet. "Give her a moment."  
  
"Yeah, back off, Arnold," Faith said, inserting herself between the two of them.  
  
He barely glanced at her, addressing Giles instead. "We may not have a moment! Blackwell could be dying right now." Now that he had a direction, the warrior seemed anxious, almost nervous to get underway.  
  
"Yes," Giles agreed quietly, offering Willow a supporting arm. "And perhaps we can all run right out and get ourselves killed as well." His sarcasm was light, but no less sincere for it. Faith cut him a questioning sideways glance, surprised.  
  
But it was Tenth who voiced the question. "What are you talking about?"  
  
"Think! The Oracle believes your friend is connected to the unfolding of the apocalypse. What if it's our rash reaction that sets off the chain of events that causes it?"  
  
Tenth looked as if he weren't sure if Giles were serious or not, and uttered an uncertain laugh. "You're kidding?"  
  
"I'm afraid not. It was prophesized that the Master would escape and that the Slayer—Buffy—would fight him and die. When Buffy went to fight him to prevent his escape, she inadvertently triggered his release. Had she never gone, he would not have escaped and she would never have died. Prophecies, if indeed this is one, are never as simple as they appear on the surface."  
  
Faith blinked, frowning, looking troubled as she absorbed that.  
  
Willow looked up, searching Giles' face with her eyes, then turned toward Tenth with a shaky nod. "He's right. It's not that simple. I…" she frowned, entire face scrunching with thought. "I… saw her, saw where she was, and I… I almost saw how she was connected to everything. But it was too tangled… I don't remember." She shook her head and the confusion cleared from her expression somewhat. "Or maybe I never knew. But she is connected. _Some_thing about her is."  
  
"You think she's the trigger?" Tenth asked, incredulous.  
  
"I think it's possible," Giles said, appearing to choose his words with care.  
  
Tenth glanced at Fox and an unspoken communication passed between them—the exact nature of the communication wasn't apparent; it could have just as easily been, 'okay let's kill them all' as it could have been 'okay, we'll wait'—and then Tenth nodded, the gesture almost imperceptible, and his dark eyes flickered back to Giles, black depths glinting like stone. "Maybe you're right."  
  
Xander cleared his throat and edged closer to the small group. "Great. So now that we're all friends again, what do we do next?"  
  
As one, everyone looked to Giles.  
  
"Well, of course we—"  
  
That was all he got out before Willow collapsed.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
When she opened her eyes, for an instant they looked as dark as the depthless seas, filled with deadly creatures swimming just out of sight beneath the façade of emptiness. Then Giles blinked and the impression vanished, leaving behind hazel-green doe eyes that stared at him in fear and wonder.  
  
"Giles. Am I… are we…" she gave a quick glance around the room and sat up abruptly. Too abruptly, it seemed, since she cried out and put a hand to her head to stave off the sharp pain that exploded there. Blood began to trickle from her nose at an alarming pace, and in two steps Giles had crossed the room to where she lay on the mats, glad that he'd brought her to the training room alone to recover, handkerchief appearing as if by magic in his hand. He pressed it beneath her nose and held it, and she looked at him gratefully over the crumpled cloth.  
  
"Wow, that must have been some spell I did, huh?" she asked, voice muffled by the handkerchief, and he could imagine the wan smile that curved against the material just beneath his hand.  
  
His eyes lingered on hers meaningfully, and then stuttered away, down to the floor. He let go of the handkerchief, and Willow took it, dabbing delicately at her nose. "Willow," he said, very serious and deliberating, as if he didn't want to go on, or was perhaps trying to find the right words. "What happened out there?"  
  
And then it was her turn to look away. What _had _happened? All she had were fleeting impressions, snatches of conversation, random images. "I'm not sure… Th-the demon came, and we… talked. And then… it attacked me." She glanced at the shoulders of her blouse. "And then…" She looked at him, eyes wide and deeply troubled. "Giles… I think I killed it." Her voice seemed to cringe.  
  
"What? Willow, that's impossible. In its home plane, this creature, if it was a demon, would be pure, like the Mayor was when he transformed."  
  
She thought about that for a moment. "I'm pretty sure I killed it." She stopped, put her free hand to her head. "I don't know. Everything's all muddled. It was bad… I remember that. It was like… someone else took over me."  
  
Giles frowned, thinking aloud as he rose to his feet and began to pace the room. "Perhaps this creature toyed with your mind, changed your perception? Made you think there was something in you that could kill it?"  
  
A flash of its face, the sound of bone as it crunched and twisted, and she flinched. They were tiny moments, but they were vivid and clear. "I _know_ I killed it," she said, morose.  
  
"Willow…" he seemed puzzled, at a loss, as if he were trying to be truthful without being unkind. "The kind of power it would take to destroy a pure demon… you don't have that kind of power."  
  
_Could_ they be implanted memories, or false images conjured by the creature? "_I _don't?" her voice trembled, half-hopeful. "Or no one does?"  
  
He hesitated, expression conflicted as he wrestled with several opposing emotions. "Sometimes, when fueled by anger, or hatred, magic can become more powerful, an extension of the emotion and the users will," he allowed, reluctantly.   
  
"Like the dark side of the force?" she suggested with a small smile.  
  
"Yes," he agreed, not smiling back. "But Willow, the amount of power involved, the lack of respect for magic and its principles that is involved… those people become monsters."  
  
Her smile thinned to a hard, pale line beneath eyes that were both frightened and determined. "It was trying to kill me, Giles. Respecting principles was kinda low on the list."   
  
He nodded slowly, as if accepting her words with great reluctance. "If you did… if you did, then you tapped into something that is not normally a part of you. No matter how powerful the user, the limitations of magic are set in place by the mind. Morals, scruples, beliefs. These things all dictate the ways in which the magic can be used. If the user is without conscience, driven by madness or revenge or hatred, then the power can be overwhelming. Without boundaries, without control, it becomes a conduit for the user's dark impulses."   
  
"So, am I going to become like, Darth Willow or something?" she asked, nervous and alarmed.  
  
He paused again, then shook his head, raising his eyes to the ceiling. "The magic itself is neither good nor evil. It is through the human vessel that it finds such definition. Through our actions." He looked to Willow again, serious, but gentle. "In a life or death situation, our instinct to survive is likely to take over completely. Perhaps you pushed past your boundaries to protect your life. If that is what happened, then you can hardly be blamed."  
  
"Right," she echoed without conviction. She dabbed at her nose one last time, glanced at the crimson stained cloth, then let her hands fall into her lap.  
  
"And, remember, we're not certain that's what happened. This creature could have done any number of things to warp your perception."  
  
"So we probably shouldn't worry about it?" Her eyes were hopeful, wanting to believe so badly.  
  
"Willow…" He walked over and took a seat beside her, regarding her with concern and care. He reached out and covered her hand with his, just barely, light and reassuring, and she almost smiled at the sweetness of the gesture. It almost made her feel better. Giles hardly ever touched any of them. "You've been on a shaky path of late, but I believe this may have been a good lesson for you, regardless of what the true outcome was." He paused and tilted his head at her. "Does it frighten you, the idea of this loss of control?"  
  
"I don't think 'frighten' covers it," she said with nervous shake of her head.  
  
"Then I don't think you have to worry." He smiled gently.  
  
Willow tried to smile back, and wished that she could believe him.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith crouched down and rocked back on her heels, back leaning against the rear entrance to the Magic Box. Looking up, she tossed her hair back out of her face and considered the blond vampire that stood, leaning against the green dumpster like some kind of rebel catalog model. A freshly lit cigarette burned between his fingers, and as she watched, he took a deep, moody drag from it, orange light illuminating his sharp features for an instant.  
  
"Bad bit of business with the witch, there," he said, exhaling slowly.  
  
Faith shrugged. "Giles said she'll be okay. He's handling it." She rubbed her hands together and tilted her head, dismissing the subject. "So tell me, what's the deal?"  
  
"Straight down to business then, is it?" he asked, and the chuckle he gave was exceptionally patronizing.   
  
"You know," her voice crackled with ire. "Some people have mood swings. You though, you've got split personalities. I thought you _liked_ 'straight down to business', or did that line belong to one of the _other_ Spike's that share your body?" She spread her arms with pronounced attitude and fixed him with a stony glare. "Sorry I don't have time to wine you and dine you first, but in case you hadn't noticed, we've a got a little bit of a situation happening."  
  
"So it's give me the information and get gone, is it?" He gave a wry smile that she could hardly see in the darkness and shook his head. "Well. Guess you're Miss Reformed Slayer, now, eh?"  
  
Her face tightened, expression drawing close and guarded. "What do you mean?"  
  
He shrugged and flicked ash from the end of his cigarette. "Not running with scissors. Playing well with heroes. You think they're going to accept you now?"  
  
He asked the question reproachfully, with disdain, but she gave it real thought for a moment, then turned her face away from him, shaking her head. "It doesn't matter. I have to do my job. Besides," she looked back to him, grim smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "I've always got you, don't I?" The way she said it, it sounded more like a curse than a blessing.  
  
He shot her a look of surprise and froze for an instant, cigarette halfway to his mouth, and the look on his face was so naked that she almost laughed. Then he snorted, a short bark of laughter escaping him, and looked away from her. "Right. Locked together in hatred. We'll be lucky if we don't kill each other before this is all over."  
  
She rose to her feet and walked toward him, smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. "That's half the fun, isn't it? The fire? The unpredictability? Keeps things…" She put her hands in her pockets and looked skyward, seeking inspiration. "Exciting," she finished decidedly, eyes locking on his with a devious grin.  
  
He studied her for a long moment in silence, wondering and mistrustful. "You're a few cups short of a tea party, aren't you?"  
  
"I thought that's what you liked about me?" she challenged.  
  
"I don't like anything about you."  
  
"And yet," she shrugged again and looked around. "Here we are. You. Me. The undercurrent of sexual tension."   
  
"And because _you think_ I want to shag you, that means I must care?" he asked, disgusted as he turned his head away from her. "You're right off your head, Slayer."  
  
"No. I think you care because you want to and you _haven't_."  
  
He made small noise that might have been laughter. "Another _brilliant_ deduction."  
  
Her eyes narrowed, and her cynical humor degenerated rapidly into bitterness. God but his attitude pissed her off. "You know, for a guy who's always throwing the truth around, you sure are careful not to get any of it on you. You wanna play dumb? Fine. But you've had plenty of chances to get in my pants, Spike. You know you could if you wanted to—and I _know_ you want to," she cut off his interjection. "But you haven't. And you keep helping me. The way I figure it, if you really didn't care, you'd have had your way with me and been gone a long time ago. So don't stand there and try to tell me you don't give a shit."   
  
He turned on her, eyes wide with something that was not quite a parody of innocence. "You're still tripping," he condemned her with disbelief.  
  
"You helped Buffy because you loved her," she said, matter of fact.  
  
His face darkened in a sudden storm of anger and he advanced a step on her. "You're not Buffy!"  
  
"No, but I'm her replacement, aren't I?" she asked with a thin smile. "Pale shadow of her noble goodness, but I'll do, right? They have a term for that, you know. My psychologist told me about it. It's called transference." She shook her head. "You and Angel. Both of you have serious emotional problems."  
  
He was fairly sputtering, he was so angry. "This isn't about Buffy! Or the Midnight Avenger."  
  
"You can't even say his name, can you?" Her smile was wry and mocking, and somehow, satisfied.  
  
"Of course I can," he said and shifted his posture, looking unsettled.  
  
"Angel," she said again, and watched his face twitch. Grinning, she stepped closer. "Angel, Angel, Angel—"  
  
"You're bloody mad, you know that?"  
  
"Angel!" Faith practically yelled in his face. Spike frowned and blanched, trying to determine the reason for the sudden excitement in her voice, and then he was being shoved roughly aside as she sprinted past him. Confused, he turned—  
  
And saw Angel standing there, brooding Neanderthal forehead and all. Faith ran another step, then leapt at the tall vampire and threw her arms around his neck in an exuberant hug.  
  
Angel blinked with impact as the overjoyed Slayer slammed into him, then glanced uncertainly back and forth, hesitating a moment before he brought his arms up around her. He clearly hadn't been prepared for the enthusiastic hug she'd swallowed him in.  
  
To his surprise, Spike found that he hadn't been, either.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
And that was all right, because Faith wasn't prepared for what she found, either.  
  
The smile slowly faded from her face, replaced by confusion as she drew back and lifted her hands from around his neck. There was metal back there, smooth and warm to the touch, like some kind of backpack or—  
  
The wail of an infant split the perfect silence.  
  
Faith's eyes widened with something like horror, and even Spike looked surprised, though the familiar smirk was beginning to creep back onto his lips.  
  
"Angel… You…"  
  
With a sheepish, shifting look, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his trench coat, Angel slowly turned, the metal construct coming into view.  
  
It _was_ a backpack, of sorts, and in it sat a tiny baby with a very, very big mouth. Faith could tell, because it was opened in the most ear-piercing wail she'd ever heard. As she watched with surreal awe, Angel cooed to the baby over his shoulder, calming it.  
  
Faith looked around warily for the cameras. "Okay. This is… this is a joke, right? Candid Camera? America's Funniest Vampires?" Her lips curved in a half-smile, the kind of desperate half-smile that begged him to agree.  
  
Angel turned back to look at her, his face impassive. He seemed extremely uncomfortable as he searched for words, and when they came, they came out like an apology. An apology he was somehow, strangely, very proud of.  
  
"He's my son."  
  
"Your—How—" Another round of sputtering, unfinished sentences passed, and finally, she spat out the only thing she could come up with. "You've only been gone a few _weeks_!"  
  
He lifted one shoulder in a slight, apologetic shrug, still looking uncomfortable. "I've… been really busy."  
  
"I'm surprised you weren't picked up by the National Enquirer," Spike snorted, "carrying that thing to term."  
  
"I didn't—" he stopped, rolled his eyes, dismissed the younger vampire, looked at Faith and tried again. "Darla—" He struggled for words, stopped again, cleared his throat. "It's… a really long story."  
  
"Darla?" Spike enquired with a snort of disbelief, eyebrows rising. "I thought you staked her a few years back in the name of 'true love'?"  
  
He looked at Spike for a moment in silence, and then turned his eyes back to Faith, ignoring the other vampire.  
  
Faith felt a tiny shiver run down her spine and couldn't identify the emotion that caused it. Her world narrowed to the depths of his warm, dark eyes, eyes that looked at her as if she were the only thing that existed. Her momentary excitement at seeing him was passing, and other feelings were beginning to creep back in, leaving her tense and confused.  
  
"I went by the house. I saw what happened. I thought maybe you…" he trailed off, eyes wavering a moment. "I'm glad you're okay."  
  
"Yeah," she said with an uneasy tilt of her head. "You know me. Like a bad penny."  
  
"Giles and the others… you're with them now?"  
  
His voice was quiet, and it snaked through the darkness, seeming to catch her up and caress her with care. She nodded and wondered what it was, exactly, that she was feeling. Gratitude? Resentment? Love? Hatred? All of the above? The bitter taste at the back of her throat gave her no answers.  
  
"We have a lot to talk about," he said.  
  
"Yeah," she agreed with a slow nod, taking a step backward and averting her eyes. Pushing her hair back out of her face, she swung her upper body slightly left, then right, as if debating, then shrugged toward the shop with one shoulder. "Guess we should do it with the others."  
  
He opened his mouth, as if he were about to say something more, then closed it and nodded. In the darkness, his eyes were bleak, intricate poems she couldn't read. Had she imagined it, or had he looked vaguely hurt? Straight faced, eyes always remotely brooding, it was hard to tell what, if anything, was going on in there.  
  
And really… did it matter?  
  
She bit down on the inside of her cheek, hated herself for knowing that it _did_ matter, then turned without another word and led the way inside.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
The Scoobies were gathered around the table in the Magic Box in a tight group, bodies still, expressions completely frozen and glazed with shock, staring at the infant that lay sleeping, swaddled in blankets, its head resting against Angel's chest.  
  
"Remarkable," Giles muttered, breaking the silence at last.  
  
"He's very special," Angel agreed with a proud nod.  
  
"Now, when you say special," Xander asked, holding up one hand questioningly, "are we talking short bus special, or golden child special?"  
  
Angel cut him a nasty glare.  
  
"What? It's an important distinction," Xander defended himself.  
  
"So," Willow shifted in her chair, leaning forward in earnest. "Let me see if I've got this straight, Angel. The Master made Darla." She counted one finger. "Darla made you." She counted two. "And you made Drusilla?" She counted a third finger and looked up at him for confirmation.  
  
"Right," Angel agreed quietly.  
  
"Then, you killed Darla, Wolfram and Hart brought her back as a human, and Drusilla made Darla a vampire?" She blinked, shook her head once. "Again?"  
  
Angel nodded.  
  
"Then you… slept with Darla, she got pregnant, and then staked herself to give birth?"  
  
Xander raised his hand again, classroom style. "Can we please get off the merry-go-round of Angel's family tree? I think I'm getting dizzy."  
  
"It does redefine dysfunctional doesn't it?" Giles asked, sounding mildly impressed.  
  
Willow's face scrunched up in a frown as she mulled all that over. "But Angel… how was the baby…" She raised her brows and gave him a tilted, embarrassed smile. "You know, how did it get conceived?"  
  
"Well they had sex, of course," Anya said, as if it should have been glaringly obvious.  
  
"Okay, _now_, I'm gonna be _sick_," Xander observed, loudly.  
  
"Yeah, I got that," Willow said, giving Anya a disgusted glance. "But I mean… _how?" She looked back at Angel. "Vampires aren't supposed to have babies."  
  
His expressionless face grew darker, tauter, conveying unhappiness with his reply. "We're not sure."  
  
"Angel…" Giles shook his head. "I must confess. No matter how the child was conceived, I don't understand why you would bring him to the Hellmouth."  
  
"It's the safest place for him," Angel answered with a mild shrug. "Not only is he with me, but the creatures searching for him would never think to look here."  
  
"Well, I can certainly see why," Giles almost sputtered. "It's one of the most dangerous places on earth. No one in their right mind would bring a baby, especially one this extraordinary, here."  
  
"I had to come back," Angel said, and closed the subject with a final, penetrating look at the Watcher.  
  
Giles' gaze slid sideways to where Faith sat, almost as if he couldn't help himself, and then he glanced back at the vampire and dropped his eyes with a self-conscious nod. "I see."  
  
"So now that we've all heard about the Boy-Wonder, can we _please_ get on with the apocalypse meeting?" Spike asked, voice straining on the verge of violence with impatience and boredom.  
  
"I thought you weren't in a hurry?" Faith mocked, voice icy as she raised a brow at him.  
  
"That was before I had to sit through the undead remake of 'Away in a Manger'," he sneered, rising from his chair in a swirl of black leather.  
  
"There's… an apocalypse?" Angel asked slowly, eyes traveling over each of their faces.  
  
"Oh, bloody hell," Spike muttered pressing the heel of one hand against his brow. "You people should just print pamphlets."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith told most of the story, beginning from the time Angel had left, interrupted only occasionally by a comment from Giles or Tenth, and when it was done, he looked at her with eyes so deep and concerned that at last she had to look away.  
  
"So…" he said, shifting as he absorbed everything she had told him. He glanced over at Connor, who was sleeping peacefully in a wicker basket, his tiny face the only thing visible amidst the tumble of blankets. "We don't know much more than we did before."  
  
"Not yet," Giles replied, regretful. "If we could only discover what this creature is, or why they wanted the scroll…"  
  
"It's not the scroll that's important," Spike said, and everyone turned to look at him at once. "The way I hear it, it's some old religious tome that's got them all in an uproar."  
  
Faith sat forward in her seat with a sudden, violent motion, anger and betrayal contorting her features. "The scroll _has_ to be important. They killed my Watcher and burned down our house to get it."  
  
"Sorry luv," Spike said with the shrug of one shoulder and incline of his head. "I'm just the messenger."  
  
"How do you know this?" Giles asked, brow furrowing with suspicion.  
  
"I ran into an old friend of mine tonight, succubus by the name Cherry. She says there's a ritual, and it's definitely to bring back some kind of big bad, but she doesn't know who. Seems the person running this group is some kind of nasty powerful. Got a grip on her followers even a succubus can't break." He slipped his hands in the pockets of his duster and leaned back against the wall, shrugging. "No one knows who she is."  
  
"She?" Giles interrupted, eyes narrowing.  
  
"Yeah. She doesn't seem to have a name. Her followers call her 'mistress'."  
  
"Mistress…" Giles murmured thoughtfully. "It doesn't ring any bells, I'm afraid."  
  
"Could she be related to the Master?" Willow asked. "I mean, not very original, but hey, vampires, not always the smartest Peanuts in the pumpkin patch." Everyone fell silent for a moment. "Uh, it's a whole 'Great Pumpkin' theme," she explained and then glanced at Xander, who smiled.   
  
"That explains the little black rain cloud," Spike snarked, with a look at Angel.  
  
"Peanuts?" Angel asked in quiet disbelief.  
  
"No offense," she offered with a weak shrug, and then bulldozed over the subject with eagerness. "So, the Mistress and the Master, maybe?"  
  
"Hmm? Oh, yes. Perhaps," Giles agreed with a nod. "But it could just as well be a title given to her by her followers. She may be known in history by her true name. We'll have to research."  
  
"So we've still got nothing," Faith said with a disgusted sigh.  
  
"No," Angel said, fixing her with a quiet, steady look. "It's a good start. Even if she's recorded by her true name, there will probably be references to what her followers call her."  
  
"Well, it's a good thing you're here to reassure us, Sunshine," Spike mocked. "Don't know what we ever did without the undead cheerleader here to keep our spirits up. I know _I_ feel better now." He was so bored and sarcastic that for a moment he sounded sincere. "Don't you?" he asked Faith rhetorically.  
  
But Faith didn't hear him at all. Angel's last words still echoed in her mind, syllables leaving an almost visible trail of color and vibration as they shook loose thoughts long tucked away, reverberating through the corridor of memory. A flash of white sand, stabbing pain in her side, a gurgling gasp for breath, and she knew this was it, she was dying—and then the memory spun away, shattering into so many shards of multi-colored glass, white desert reflected in a million tiny mirrors for an instant, and the resonance their destruction made came together in a single, sharp sound that formed a word as it shot like a bullet into her consciousness, into knowing.  
  
"Daeonira," she whispered with trembling lips, and the word escaped her like curse, hardly knowing it had been released at all.  
  
"What?" Xander asked, looking at her oddly.  
  
She turned and looked at him full on, her eyes steady now, aware, though they were no less filled with strange echoes and emotions than her heart. "Daeonira," she said again, with emphasis, as if he should know what it meant.  
  
"Oh," he replied with a lilt of his eyes that suggested she might have just lost her mind. "And what is that, exactly?"  
  
Angel, who had been leaning over the back of a chair, stood up straight and gripped the wood so tight that it creaked in protest.  
  
"It's her name."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"I didn't really know her," Angel explained, hand curled into a light fist, chin resting in the shallow circle of thumb and forefinger as he flipped idly through the pages of a book. The others were silent, listening with rapt attention as they pored over their own books, scouring for references. "She was more like a legend. She _was_ an ally of the Master, incredibly old. Some said she was the first vampire he ever sired, and some said she sired him."  
  
"You never met her?" Giles asked, glancing up from beneath his glasses.  
  
"Darla and I weren't with the Master very long. I—Angelus didn't like him."  
  
"Shock! Horror!" Spike muttered without surprise as he paced restless circles around the group.  
  
"We don't have anything about her on our files," Fox said with a sigh of disappointment and sat back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. Willow glanced over and gave him a wan, encouraging smile.  
  
"She was very secretive," Angel said by way of agreement. "Most people hadn't ever seen her face. There was debate over whether or not she actually existed."  
  
"Giles! I think I've got something!" Willow spoke up, excited. "Here," she said, pointing to a paragraph on the open page. Giles and Angel came up on either side, flanking her as they read over her shoulder. Faith rose from her seat and moved between them, behind the witch, and nearly bumped into Spike, who had wandered over as well. He cut her a scathing look and she shot him a sardonic wink in return, and they both turned shoulder to shoulder, sharing the space by mutual, unspoken agreement. She could see the smirk still lingering on his profile and felt her own smile surface for an instant, then turned her attention completely to the book, craning her neck to see over the witch's head.  
  
"'…such occurrences are repeated throughout history, Roanoke being the most famous. In Cadiz, Spain, an entire Phoenician trading colony vanished almost overnight. Since such colonies consisted almost exclusively of seafaring men, it was thought by most civilized people that the colony had simply moved on. But the more primitive natives whispered dark and eerie tales of a word carved into a rock near the shore of the colony, written in a language ancient even to them. It read Daeonira, and its significance is still unknown…' Giles," Willow shook her head, frowning. "The date of this event is documented as 1100 BC." She turned wide eyes on him. "Can that be right?"  
  
Giles pulled his glasses from his face and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. "I'm afraid so, yes."  
  
"But… that would make her almost three thousand years old, Giles," Faith said with a tiny laugh that implied the idea was pure craziness.  
  
"At the very least," he agreed, face devoid of humor. He slipped the glasses back onto his nose and pushed them up with a practiced gesture. "Don't worry, Faith. The Master was far older than that, and Buffy defeated him. And you and Buffy defeated Kakistos together. Even the oldest vampires can be vanquished."   
  
The Slayer shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans and walked away from the tiny group around the witch, turning her back to them. "Sure. Right," she agreed with an abrupt nod. "It's just… I never really think about how long they've been alive—just how long it takes me to kill 'em. Kind of a shocker." She bowed her head and fell quiet, more disturbed than she'd let on.  
  
"So what do you think happened to the colony?" Willow wondered aloud.  
  
"I'm guessing 'Suck-a-palooza' in a big way," Xander answered, grim faced.  
  
"I bet she made them her minions," Willow added.   
  
"Well of course." Anya shrugged. "If you're a sexy gal looking for male minions to worship you, you can't get much better than sailors. They practically do that anyway."  
  
"I don't know if I'd call that worship, An."  
  
"Lust, desire, want... they all equal the same thing," Giles said with an indifferent shrug. "No matter what its form or end, that sort of passion is a type of worship in and of itself. Such emotions carry great power."  
  
His words reminding her of their conversation earlier, Willow cut him an uneasy glance.  
  
"The question is," Faith said, swinging her hips with slow steps away from the group, her back still turned. "How does she do it?" She stopped walking, abruptly, and folded her arms over her chest.   
  
"I think we've got bigger problems than that," Angel spoke up after a moment. His finger traced the tiny print on the parchment of the book he was looking at. "'After the turn of the second Christian century, the divine one shall return, and the one called Daeonira shall herald his coming.'" Angel looked up and caught Giles' eye as the Watcher came closer, leaning down to view the print.  
  
"Sounds like our big nasty's resurrection ritual," Spike commented.  
  
"Is this our apocalypse?" Willow asked leaning over to get a better look.  
  
"It's not exactly apocalyptic, but it doesn't sound like it bodes well," Angel replied.  
  
"So more like an opening act for the apocalypse?" Xander asked with grim humor.   
  
"Probably." Angel caught Giles' eye again as the Watcher stood up. "It was a prediction made by an ancient vampire called Heronia, just before she was slain."  
  
"The seer?" Giles asked, surprised. Angel nodded in reply, letting his eyes carry the gravity of that affirmation.   
  
The look between them lasted so long that Xander finally sat forward and waved a hand at them to get their attention. "Hello? You guys wanna share with the rest of the class?"  
  
"Heronia was a famous vampire. A seer," Giles replied, distracted as he broke the look between himself and Angel and turned, leaning back against the table. "Almost everything she predicted came to pass."  
  
"Does that mean we can't stop it?" Willow asked, concerned.  
  
"We won't know until we try," Giles shrugged. "Nothing is set in stone."  
  
"Well, did she make any predictions after this one?" Xander asked. "'Cause that'd be a dead giveaway on whether or not we're gonna pull this thing off."  
  
Giles consulted the book again briefly. "It doesn't say, here. I'd have to get a listing of her predictions to be sure, but I don't believe there are any predictions chronologically later than this."  
  
Faith turned and walked back toward the table. "This divine one… It's a he, he's returning, so he's been here before." Her eyes fell on Angel almost accusing, expectant. "Come on, Angel. Who is it? I know you've got some kind of idea."  
  
He hesitated a moment, all eyes focused on him, then steeled himself and looked up at her. "I'm not sure. But…" he went on, giving in beneath her glare. "If I had to guess… I'd say the Master."  
  
Faith's blood rushed cold in her veins for an instant. Oh yeah, that was _all_ she needed, _two_ ancient vampires out to destroy the world.  
  
"Angel," Giles said, reproachful. "You know just as well as I do how impossible that would be. N-not only are his bones crushed to powder, but, but the spell requires the blood of those who were closest to him when he died, and Jenny is—"  
  
He broke off abruptly, and the look that passed between them this time was swift and filled with a myriad of emotion. The pause in conversation was slight, but telling. Angel dropped his eyes to the ground, and the Watcher turned slightly away, not looking at the vampire as he continued in a quiet, far more subdued voice. "Jenny is dead. The spell would be thwarted by her absence, even if it could still be used. Even if this Daeonira _was_ very close to the Master, it would be impossible for her to bring him back."  
  
Faith let the silence play out a moment longer, then pressed on. "Okay… any other guesses?"  
  
Giles raised his shoulders in a vague shrug and shook his head, looking lost. "None at present."  
  
Angel shook his head as well, still not looking up from the floor.  
  
Willow cleared her throat, uncomfortable, and stood up. "Um, guys, I know we'd love to figure this all out tonight, but I've really got to get some sleep. I've got classes tomorrow."  
  
"And someone has to run the shop tomorrow," Anya added, rising from her chair as well.  
  
"Yes, yes," Giles agreed with a motion of his hand. "Go home, rest. The books will still be here tomorrow."  
  
Angel shifted from one foot to the other. "Um," he spoke up with a pointed look.  
  
Giles looked at him, questioning, and then realization swept over his face. "Of course. You'll need to stay somewhere…" he tried very hard not to look at Faith, "comfortable. I'm sure we can, ah, set something up for the you and the baby in the training room."  
  
"What?" Anya demanded, stepping closer to Giles. "You're going to let that puling, vomiting creature stay in our store?"  
  
"Anya—" Giles began.  
  
"Why can't they stay at the mansion with Faith?" Anya challenged. Faith turned began to intently examine the contents of the spice shelf, as if fascinated. "Or your house?" Giles looked flustered and began to protest. "See! You don't want them at your places either! Why do we have to be stuck with them here? Give me one good reason!"  
  
"I can pay you," Angel offered, voice calm and quiet.  
  
"Oh." She straightened thoughtfully, then smiled, big and bright. "Okay then."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Far beneath the streets of Sunnydale, the mistress sat upon her throne chair, one leg hooked over its arm, ancient tome laid open across her lap. Several more books were stacked haphazardly on the small table beside her, surrounded by pencils and notepads. Scattered paper filled with tiny, concise script covered the entire scene, from table, to lap, to floor, but she seemed not to notice it—indeed, she was deeply involved in another tightly written calculation, sharp teeth gnawing at the end of the pencil, worrying the eraser to shreds, when Zhaad entered.  
  
She finished writing off the line she was working on and glanced up, impatient. "Speak."  
  
"The others have come searching for their companion, as she predicted they would," he said without preamble.  
  
Her eyes went wide for a moment, and then she realized what he meant. "The woman from the Order."  
  
"Yes, mistress."  
  
She twiddled the pencil between her fingers thoughtfully. "And?"  
  
"They've made contact with the Slayer and her group."  
  
The pencil came to an abrupt stop.   
  
"They appear to have allied, mistress." He was careful to keep the emotion from his voice, as neutral and impartial as a news anchor giving the daily report. The best thing he could have done, really. Any attempt at showing sympathy would likely have sent her into a rage and resulted in the delivery of her wrath.  
  
She thought for a long moment, considered being angry, and then shrugged, looking back down at the book in her lap. "They're likely not a threat. They know nothing. After all," she reasoned, with a self-satisfied grin, "there's no way that they could." She looked up at him again, face sly, her smile deepening and twisting into a smirk.   
  
"Blackwell has made very, very sure of that."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith stepped out the back door of the shop into the cool night air, took a deep breath, and turned her face up toward the stars.  
  
"Hell of a night," Spike growled from the shadows, the orange glow from his cigarette flaring up in the darkness.  
  
"No kidding," she agreed with a nod of her head. She tilted her head from one side to the other, trying to ease the tension in her neck muscles, and they stood there together for several minutes in silence, lost in their own thoughts.  
  
"Right. So. About earlier—" Spike began as he moved into the light, and she just had time to note the uncertain note in his voice before it broke off, his body tensing as he spotted someone coming around the corner.  
  
Faith dropped back into a fighting stance even as she swung around, following Spike's gaze, and caught just a glimpse of a black clad form emerging from behind the dumpster.  
  
"Faith?" Angel's voice, soft and hesitant.   
  
Spike made a grunting noise of indeterminate nature. Stepping into the fluorescent light behind the store, Angel's eyes flickered in the other vampire's direction, then proceeded to ignore him. "I thought I heard you," he explained, speaking to Faith.  
  
"Yeah." She stood straight and let her posture relax. "So, did you forget where the door was or did you think skulking around the building in the shadows would be more fun?"  
  
"I was checking the perimeter. Thought I should get familiar with everything since Connor and I will be staying here for a while."  
  
The door creaked open and Giles poked his head out. "Oh good, Faith, you're still here. With Spike and Angel," he sounded pleased. "I wonder if I could see the three of you for a moment. I require your, ah, input as experienced warriors."  
  
"You mean you need our help moving furniture?" Spike asked, surly and unimpressed.  
  
"Well, er, yes."  
  
"No sweat, Giles." Faith flashed him a smile.  
  
"Very good. I'll just go move some boxes out of the way." He retreated back inside.  
  
"Guess we should go," Faith said, with a look at both vampires. Angel scuffed his feet, looking morosely down at the ground, and she turned toward him. "Moving furniture… depresses you?" she ventured with a raise of brows.  
  
He lifted his head and she was struck again by the sadness in his eyes, the way it went straight through her right to her heart, piercing like an arrow, filling her with confusion like poison. And still, his eyes were veiled, mysterious even for all that they showed, and she could not know how deep the silence ran, or where the concern left off and the love began, or if it began at all.  
  
A moment of awkward silence passed between them, eyes locked and hearts torn, words on their lips that burned to be spoken.   
  
She heard the door open behind her, could sense Spike waiting there, could imagine his annoyed, impatient expression as he prepared to throw a nasty comment at them about taking their bloody time, and relieved that she had an out, she took a step backwards toward the door.  
  
It slammed shut.  
  
She blinked, surprised, feeling somehow trapped and betrayed. He'd left her. Angel was here, and Spike—  
  
_Okay, never mind that. Salvage the situation. Quick.  
_  
"So, some reunion, huh?" she asked, feigning cheer.  
  
"Not exactly what I had in mind."  
  
"Yeah, you know, I wanted streamers and balloons, maybe a big cake with a stripper, but the vampires wanted apocalypse." She gave a wry grin and held up her hands. "What can you do?"  
  
"Faith…" He swallowed and glanced away, expression pained.  
  
She froze, gaze falling, locking on the ground, almost vacant. "Angel… Don't."  
  
"No. I want to. I need to." He took a moment, gathered his thoughts. "I… I made a bad decision," he said it as if the words hurt him, and she knew instinctively that the hurt was for her, for all she had suffered while he was gone. "I thought you'd be better off without me around." He hesitated, seeming to struggle with the words. "I'm sorry I left. If I'd known…"  
  
She nodded, still not looking at him. "It's okay. I get it."  
  
He shook his head, helplessly. "It's not okay. I never should have—"  
  
"But you did," she said, voice taut.  
  
He flinched and his puppy dog eyes filled with guilt that said he'd deserved to be kicked like that. She grit her teeth and fought for control, the sight of his regretful face only serving to make her angrier. She caught her temper, reined it in, and forced herself to go on in a more calm tone of voice.  
  
"Look. Angel. I was really pissed at you. I'm still pretty pissed, but there's bigger stuff going on right now." She pushed her hair back out of her face, tucking it behind one ear, and looked up at him.  
  
"I understand."  
  
"I know." She gave him a sad, faint smile.  
  
"I thought I was doing the best thing for both of us. I thought it would be better if we had time to figure out how we feel—felt about each other." He stumbled over the last few words and stopped, looking confused.  
  
"And?" she asked quietly, hardly daring to breathe.  
  
He looked at her with lost eyes and shook his head slowly. "I don't know."  
  
"Well, good thing you took your time figuring that one out," she said with a roll of her eyes.  
  
"It's not like this has been easy for me, either," he defended himself. "What about you, Faith? How do you feel?"  
  
How did she feel? _How did she **feel?**_ She hovered on the edge of explosion again, and in the moment, she could see that he was ready for it, body tense, expression expectant, braced for the impact of her barbs—and then, she just… stopped. She could do this, fall back into the routine, go down this path again… but with the end of the world on its way, did she really want to waste the only time they might have left? And if she didn't even have the strength to tell him how she felt, how could she have the strength to bear any of the coming trials she would surely have to face? Besides, she thought with an inner grin, the truth might just be enough to catch him off guard and send him stuttering into embarrassment, and that was something that never failed to entertain her. So how _did_ she feel?  
  
Screw that. No analyzing. She jumped forward with both mental feet and let the truth come free.  
  
The faint smile lingered on her lips and she folded her arms over her chest, taking a slow step closer to him. "Right now? Looking at you, I can't decide if I want to hit you or kiss you." He blinked and took a breath he didn't need, and she couldn't read his emotion. "But hey, that's cool," she relented. "I've felt that way a lot lately."  
  
His gaze turned slightly suspicious, eyes narrowing as he tried to figure that one out.  
  
"And, I've got too many other things to focus on right now, so lucky you; you're at the bottom of the list. You get a reprieve. At least," she added with a light shrug, "until this thing is over."  
  
"And then?"  
  
"If we live?" She took another step toward him. "Your ass is mine." She paused, tilted her head as she considered that for a moment, then flashed a dazzling grin. "And you know, I'm still not sure if that means kicking your ass or jumping your bones."  
  
He smiled, the smallest of smiles, so faint, but definitely there.  
  
"Let's get this straight. I'm not forgiving you."  
  
"I know."  
  
"But…" She hesitated, self conscious, and then forced herself to say it. "I'm glad you're here, Angel." It was true, after all. With Angel back, she felt safe, more sure of everything. No matter how strange things got between them, no matter how much he'd hurt her, his presence soothed her, calmed her in a way she couldn't describe or explain.   
  
"What happened to you?" he asked, soft and wondering.  
  
He stared at her with wonder and something like pride, and again he pierced the veil of her soul, pulling it back to reveal something foreign and tender. And she hated him for making her feel that, hated him with a passion that made her want to kiss him until—  
  
_Okay, whoa, backing away from that intense, psychotic feeling, right. now.  
_  
She took a step backward and tried to regain her wits. "Nothing compared to what's going to happen if we don't get back inside the shop. Giles may not look like much, but Watcher rage?  Not a pretty thing. We should go."  
  
He looked as if he wanted to protest, but he only nodded. He looked just as tired as she felt. "So we're still friends?"   
  
One corner of her mouth twisted up in a smirk, and she put a hand on her hip as she looked him up and down. "Sure. I mean hell," she shrugged, "the world's probably only got a few weeks before it blows up, anyway. I think I can pretend to like you for that long."  
  
He smiled at her then, a real smile, and it warmed her heart more than anything she'd felt in a long time.  
  
And she thought, for the first time, that maybe… just maybe, they'd get through this all right.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
_Elsewhere…  
  
Something shifts and mewls eagerly, scratching at the skin of the world with long, black claws that have too long been denied the texture of human flesh. It reaches out with its mind, feeling for the one who will soon free it, sensing her presence, so close to the other side of the rapidly thinning barrier.  
  
The time is close now. The moon grows wide and bloated again, and soon its cycle will come full circle.  
  
Soon, it will be part of the world again, and humanity will tremble before its wrath.  
  
Content, it turns away from the barrier, curling up within itself to wait. It has no need of worry or fear.  
  
After all, its destiny is written._  
  
_


	11. Mortal Ground 2 Chapter 11: Sins of Pas...

CHAPTER 11: SINS OF PAST AND FUTURE  
  
Now look at me baby  
struggling to do everything right  
And then it all falls apart  
when out go the lights  
I'm just a lonely pilgrim  
I walk this world in wealth  
I want to know if it's you I don't trust  
'cause I damn sure don't trust myself  
  
            ~Brilliant Disguise, Bruce Springsteen  
______________________________________________  
  
The town streets were deathly quiet, empty, with not even a trace to give evidence of the living. Neat little houses in straight, quaint rows, shades drawn and insides darkened, they looked like squat sentinels, windows like blind staring eyes, hunched down and hushed with waiting so silent and complete that they might have been in the middle of a ghost town. Children's toys did not line the yards or streets here, and cars were nestled safely in garages, doors shut tight and locked against thieves and other night terrors only half-imagined. Cars that had no garage lined the streets in varying shades of bulky metal, most of them as unremarkable as the next; plain, average vehicles all merging together in a faceless representation of America's suburban middle-class. In Sunnydale it was always a good idea not to be noticed, but this was ridiculous. No people, no vampires, no monsters at all. It was as if the entire town was hiding out, holding its collective breath as they waited for whatever storm was coming to explode.  
  
"This place is locked tighter than a nun's knees," Faith grumbled under her breath.  
  
"Oh, that's colorful." Xander, walking beside her, seemed less concerned or affected by the strange quiet. Willow and Tara walked just behind them, and Faith couldn't see their faces, but she suspected they wouldn't be as casual as his. As they reached the edge of the graveyard, he set down the huge bag he'd been carrying like a sack of lead slung over his shoulder, and unzipped it. And, huh, the fact that he was so unperturbed might have had something to do with the fact that he was packing a double-headed axe the size of a pony. She squinted at it as he pulled it from the bag, thinking it looked vaguely familiar…  
  
"Is that Angel's battle axe?"  
  
"What? This?" he asked, just a little too innocently.  
  
"How many times have you watched it now?" Willow demanded with a knowing grin.  
  
"W-watched what?" Tara asked, glancing between the two of them, curious.  
  
Willow smiled at her, almost smug. "The Fellowship of the Ring. I downloaded it online for him. You can't even see it in the theatres yet." She turned and looked at Xander again. "So, how many times?"  
  
"Oh." He shrugged, evasive. "Just a couple of times."  
  
Willow just stared at him and arched one brow, goofy grin playing over her lips.  
  
"Okay, twelve times." He lifted the head of the axe a few inches off the ground, testing its weight. "I figure I ought to be an expert by proxy by now."  
  
Faith gave him a dubious look. "You sure you can handle that?"  
  
He looked at her deliberately as he hefted the axe up and over his shoulder with both hands, letting it balance there, grinning in triumph.  
  
She folded her arms and raised her brows at him.  
  
"Oh ye of little faiiiith—" His retort turned into a cry of surprise as the weight of the axe head overbalanced and pulled him backward with it.  
  
"Whoa, easy there, killer." Faith chuckled, reaching out and grabbing him by the front of his shirt. She pulled him carefully upright, axe and all, with hardly a tug. "I don't think Mordor needs to flee the gates just yet," she chuckled.  
  
He paused in his forming expression of annoyance, eyes narrowing, head tilting. "Wait a minute. _You've_ read Lord of the Rings?"  
  
Her grin broadened and she shrugged, taking a step away from him as if she were already growing bored with the conversation. "Nah. Just caught the Led Zepplin cliff notes versions more than a couple of times. I thought they used swords?"  
  
"The axe is a real man's weapon," he said, sounding slightly insulted.  
  
"Not like we're gonna need the axe, anyway. This town has turned into such a drag," she complained with a sigh, tossing her stake back and forth between her hands. "I mean, it's been weeks since we've even seen a vampire. If it weren't for this apocalypse thing I'd probably be out of a job by now."  
  
Xander hefted the axe forward, its weight carrying him gracelessly with it before it hit the ground and stuck deep, and shot her a reproachful look out of the corner of his eye. "You know, we tend to look on lack of vampires around here as a _good_ thing."  
  
"Okay, well, demons, ghosts, the boogeyman, whatever. Give me _something to kill, that's all I'm saying."  
  
"B-boogeyman?" Willow asked nervously, twisting her neck to glance around the darkened streets. "You think there's… one of those?"  
  
"Oh, I—I'm sure it's just a myth," Tara said with genuine sympathy, laying a comforting arm around Willow's shoulders.  
  
"Will's got this whole boogeyman phobia," Xander chuckled. "I used to tease her when we were little that he carried a disco ball and sang cheesy disco music. _'I'm the boogeyman, I'm the boogeyman, turn me on'_…" He did a fair impression of the famous Saturday Night Fever dance as he sang, taking sliding steps through the grass.  
  
"It's not funny," Willow retorted, giving him a dirty look.  
  
Faith stared wide-eyed at Xander for a second, then burst into laughter and shook her head. "No, _that's_ really scary."  
  
Xander joined her in laughing and Willow intensified her look of displeasure, causing him to break off in mid-laugh. "Of course, that was before she became a mega-powerful witch that could dust me quicker than disco." He gave Willow a nervous, charming grin.  
  
For a moment, she looked unnerved, as if he'd just discovered her deepest darkest secret.  
  
"Okay," he said as if making note, ticking off fingers as he listed, "teasing; big check in the ixnay column. Flattery; also a big check in the negative." He turned his hands palms up and frowned as if at a loss. "All I've got left is sarcasm, which, I'm guessing, is a big plus in the 'begging you to hurt me' category."  
  
"Oh, don't tell me you're not down with that," Faith said with a laugh. "I seem to recall—" She cut the sentence short, mentally kicking herself. Shit. Too late.  
  
And that did it. The spell was broken. The change in the group was as palpable as it was sudden. Xander turned a suddenly cold eye on her and all the friendliness went out of the moment.   
  
"Well, speaking as someone who's tried, you ought to know."  
  
_Dammit_. Go out with Xander and Willow on patrol tonight, Giles had said. It'll be good for you all. And it had been pretty cool, truth to tell, up 'til now. Bantering and having fun while passing the time, trading quips and stories. Kind of like she'd always imagined it would be if… if she hadn't gone evil and tried to kill them all. Yeah, there was that. There was always that. That wasn't some little pile of dirt you could sweep neatly under the carpet and forget about, was it? More like the Vug under the rug.  
  
Willow's eyes shifted away, uncomfortable, and Tara ducked her head, as if the movement alone could shield her from the confrontation.  
  
Faith shoved her hands deep in the pockets of her jeans and slanted her shoulders, trying to balance the guilt and discomfort, make it more bearable. "Good one," she nodded with grudging approval. "You got me, Xand." She gave a short, brittle laugh, stiffened her arms and looked up at the sky, shrugging. "Hell, not much I can say to that, is there?"  
  
He looked at her with steady, glittering eyes. "No. Not really."  
  
"Was a time I'd have taken your head off for saying that," she said evenly.  
  
"How 'bout now?" he challenged, and it was all she could do not to chuckle her approval. He sounded like he was more than game for going up against her, even though he had to know he'd lose. Maybe it was a side of him she'd never gotten to see before, or maybe it was new, but whatever it was, she was impressed by it.  
  
She pulled her hands from her pockets and spread her arms wide. "What do you want, Xander? You want me to try to hurt you so you can be right about me? Do you really think if that was my master plan I'd be helping you out?"  
  
"You might, rabbit, you might," he said with just the faintest lilt of an Irish beat-cop accent.  
  
"Damn," she said with heavy sarcasm, throwing in a light laugh for good measure. "And everything was going so well. What happened? Did you forget you were patrolling with the enemy for a couple of minutes and now you have to get your digs in to make up for it?"  
  
She heard Willow and Tara shifting uncomfortably, wondered for a moment why neither of them had anything to say, then stomped one foot forward, put a hand on her hip, and sighed. Fuck. She didn't want this. She wanted to travel back in time a few minutes to the light hearted banter and tentative camaraderie. It had actually felt… good. For a few minutes, she'd actually felt like she belonged. Strange, how important that seemed.  
  
"Look, Xander. I can't ever take back what I did," she said very seriously, meeting his eyes for a moment. "There's some things 'I'm sorry' just doesn't cover."   
  
"Am I supposed to be impressed by your inability to apologize?"  
  
"Depends. Am I supposed to be impressed by your inability to move on?"  
  
They stared at each other in silence for a moment, chins and chests shoved out with impunity as they faced off, and Faith was struck by the image of two children facing off on the kindergarten playground.  
  
The moment shattered in the roar of a demon as it launched itself at Faith from the mausoleum behind her. It slammed into her like a freight train, and she felt something in her back shift and give. Caught off guard, she tasted grass and breathed dirt, feeling her arm twist up behind her back at a painful angle, crushed beneath the leaden weight of the monster, its stench filling her nostrils despite the intervening grass.  
  
Whatever the thing was, it was strong, too strong for any of the others to take it on. She couldn't see beyond the blackness of the ground, but she could hear the confusion and panic of the voices around her, and knew that this could be it. Killed in the line of duty, too bad, so sad. The thought propelled her into action and she shoved with what little leverage she had, and felt the demon slide from the center of her back down over her side. It snarled in rage and tried to push her back down, but she'd used the precious second of breath and movement to get her free arm under her body. Grunting with exertion, she pushed upward with all her strength, and the creature went sliding off her back, all fangs and fur and fury.  
  
She leapt to her feet—  
  
And had just enough time to fall backwards onto her ass as an axe came whistling through the air at her.  
  
The blade passed harmlessly over her head, but sliced into the shoulder of the demon, which howled its impotent rage at the sky. A spray of green blood fanned out over her and drenched her face, dripped into her eyes, blurring her vision. She blinked, wiped at her eyes, and rolled to the left, out of range of the immediate struggle, trying to get her bearings.  
  
Xander strained, hands on the handle of the axe as he tried to heft it free, and she wasn't quite sure, but she thought the demon was grinning at him. She wiped at her eyes again, blinked hard, squeezed them shut, and opened them again to see the creature wrap its ape-like hands around the axe still buried in its body, using it to spin Xander out and away from it. Xander hit the ground hard, and lay there stunned, taking a moment to catch his breath—  
  
A moment too long. The creature yanked the axe from its own body as if it no longer felt the pain and leapt at Xander, monkey-like, weapon raised high.  
  
Everything happened in slow-motion. Faith saw the point of the axe as it reached the apex of its swing, razor sharp tip gleaming cold and deadly in the moonlight, a frozen star of light blooming from it like frost. She heard Willow's sluggish syllables as the witch stuttered through an incantation, and knew somehow that whatever spell she was casting, it wasn't going to be in time.  
  
Demon. Xander. Axe. Her. Those were the only things that existed in the span of that millisecond as instinct kicked in, and she knew exactly how to move them. As the arc of the axe pulled the creature to the point of no return, she launched herself at it. Her feet left the ground just before her hands wrapped around the handle and twisted the weapon's length back against the demon's chest. The two of them spun like drunken dancers for a moment—and then the momentum carried Faith around the demon and she let go, falling awkwardly to the ground. A split second later, the axe hit the grass between them, pulled free by their struggle.  
  
The creature screamed in anger and leapt for her, and she had an instant to think how badly she'd miscalculated before it struck, the impact of its body rattling her teeth. Its claws raked painfully down her sides, leaving stripes of bleeding fire behind, and she ground her aching teeth together in an effort not to cry out. _Shit!_ Too slow to grab the axe. Too slow to at least turn over so she'd have a fighting chance. The creature had her pinned face down in the grass for the second time inside a minute, and she would have laughed at how sad that was if she'd had any breath left.  
  
The world began to swim with a feeling she was recently familiar with, bright spots bursting behind her eyes. Suffocation. Again. Great. Whatever the fuck this thing was, it was damned heavy. It might not even get a chance to maul her to death. She had one last semi-conscious moment to wonder what would happen during the apocalypse without her, and then her thoughts began to bleed away like smooth, black oil.  
  
Her body jarred with heavy impact again, and the little bit of air that was still in her lungs left her in a tiny gasp. The weight atop her went suddenly limp, heavier than ever for a moment, and then she felt it slide off. Gasping gratefully for air, she rolled over on her back, prepared to come up fighting again—and saw Xander standing over her breathing hard, covered in green blood. Willow came into her line of vision, pale face pinched in an expression somewhere between curiosity and concern. Tara stepped timidly into view a second later, her face open and anxious. Faith turned her head to the side and saw the demon slumped like a broken doll, axe buried in its hulking upper back.  
  
She looked back at Xander and coughed out a rough laugh, relieved at the absence of lancing pain. The slices down her sides burned like hell, but at least her ribs were still whole. She was _really_ tired of having broken ribs.  
  
"My hero," she teased with an attempt at a grin.  
  
He seemed uncertain about what kind of reaction he was supposed to be having. Or perhaps he was just debating about which one he __wanted to have. He shifted with indecision, a hand rising to halfway to the back of his neck, self-conscious, and finally settled for neutral concern. "Are you… okay?"  
  
"Am now."  
  
He hesitated a second more, then reached out to her with one hand. She took it and pulled herself up slowly, mentally checking herself for aches and pains. Nothing serious beyond the cuts and shortness of breath, it seemed. She'd been lucky.  
  
"You guys okay?" She glanced at Willow and Tara.  
  
They both nodded, looking chagrined and awkward. Absently, Willow touched her upper arm and Faith saw that the fabric of the witch's shirt had been torn, thin line of blood seeping slowly into the material. Somehow, during all the action, she'd gotten clipped by the demons claws. Well, that explained the lack of a spell to save their butts.  
  
"You guys should probably head back while we clean up here, get that looked at." She nodded at Willow's arm.  
  
"It's just a scratch," the witch said, defensive, her hand moving up to cover the wound all together.  
  
"Yeah. But I think that thing's poisonous. I can feel something wicked working its way down under my skin."  
  
Willow and Tara both stared at her.  
  
"But then, shouldn't you…" Tara asked, confused.  
  
"I got some time. Benefits of being a Slayer; poison can take days to do real damage."  
  
"Oh."  
  
They both hesitated a moment longer, and Willow glanced at Xander with concern. "You okay?"  
  
"Yeah, I'll be fine. Me and Faith'll take monkey boy here to Hangar 18 and head right back."  
  
There was another awkward pause while Willow glanced at each of them, mistrustful and self-conscious, and then they went.  
  
Faith turned to look at Xander, and the two of them just stood there, silent beneath the bright moonlight.  
  
"You saved me." It was a question, a quiet exclamation and a challenge all in one.  
  
"You saved me first," he retorted, and it would have been totally grade school if not for the hint of dark humor he added to the words.  
  
"So does that make us even?"  
  
"No." He shrugged and turned away, moving to pull the axe from the demon's back.  
  
She nodded and smirked. Not even, no. But maybe it was a start.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Anya flipped another page in the massive tome she was reading, and sighed, rolling her eyes in annoyance. "Didn't you Watchers ever do anything exciting?" she asked aloud, exasperated.  
  
Giles glanced up from his own book with a wry look. "Watcher histories are written to give great, painstaking detail on all supernatural phenomenon, Anya, not to entertain the masses with stories of parties and orgies."  
  
"Yeah, you need the Watcher diaries for that kind of stuff," Fox spoke up from behind his laptop monitor. When everyone turned to give him an odd look, he shrugged and turned a bright shade of pink. "Or so I've heard," he mumbled.  
  
Tenth chuckled at his partner, and then spoke up, thoughtful. "Anya has a point," he allowed. "The inactivity's beginning to wear on us all."  
  
Angel and Giles both raised their eyes to the larger man, as if confused.  
  
He took in their look and amended his statement. "Except for the Watcher and Angel."  
  
Anya snorted. "Oh believe me, this is their idea of a party. Cooped up inside with a bunch of dusty books." She looked at them both, almost accusing. "It's no wonder neither one of you has a life."  
  
Giles looked mildly offended and had opened his mouth to contradict her when the bell over the shop door rang out.  
  
Willow and Tara stood there, the redhead leaning on her girlfriend's shoulder as if she would fall down without the support.  
  
"Willow," Giles said, voice sharp as he rose briskly from his seat. "Are you all right?"  
  
"I, uh, think I'm okay. Just a little woozy. Slight case of demon poison," she explained as Tara helped her inside the shop.  
  
"What did it look like?" Giles and Angel asked, almost in unison.  
  
"See what I'm talking about?" Anya asked with a pointed look at Tenth, who smiled in return.  
  
"Big, muscular, quick. Kinda monkey-like, sharp claws, uh…"  
  
"Face like an orangutan and a walrus that got caught in a blender during a really angry date," Tara summed up.  
  
"An Angaturan demon," Angel said with a look at Giles.  
  
"Yes, yes," the Watcher agreed, quickly moving to the shelf that held the shop's herbs and spell components. He picked out a few odd ingredients, grabbed a small iron cauldron off another shelf and motioned Willow and Tara toward the back room. "It's, it's not a fast acting poison, thankfully. I should be able to have an antidote ready fairly quickly."  
  
They disappeared behind the door together, and Anya turned the page and gave another sigh.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Ten minutes later, Giles had administered the antidote and Willow was feeling much better.  
  
"Are you… is it okay?" Tara asked, blue-gray eyes still concerned.  
   
"Maybe not five by five," she said with light sarcasm, "but I'm okay." She sat up and forced her grimace into a smile as if in proof. "See? Good as new."  
  
"Tara, why don't you go out and have Anya help you find a book to make sure the antidote is correct? Just so we can be certain," Giles said with a tentative smile.  
  
"You're not sure?" Willow asked, suddenly anxious.  
  
"Extremely sure." He hesitated. "Fairly sure. It's been, ah, years since I had to make an antidote for an Angaturan."  
  
Tara looked worried as well, and Willow hurried to reassure her. "I really do feel better sweetie, but maybe you'd better go check."  
  
Tara smiled gently, gave her one last look, then squeezed her hand and let it go, leaving the training room without another word.  
  
"Are you really all right?" Giles asked as soon as she was gone, glancing at Willow with concern.  
  
"Yeah, I think so." She glanced down at her arm, then looked back up at Giles, suspicious. "Guess that thing really was poisonous. I thought for sure Faith was trying to get Xander alone to take him out quietly."  
  
Giles blinked, thought about that for a moment, then gave small shrug. "If she'd really wanted Xander dead, she could have let the demon kill him."  
  
Willow fell quiet, considering that, then finally sighed. "Yeah, you're probably right," she admitted with reluctance. "It's just… she used to be all Psycho Slayer 2000 and now she's... I don't know. I just don't know how we could ever trust her."  
  
Giles frowned slightly and gave her a quizzical look. "Not that I'm unhappy to hear it, but this doesn't sound like your usual 'I hate Faith' litany."  
  
"I know. Weird, isn't it?" she asked with a self-deprecating roll of her eyes. For the split-second she closed her eyes to create the expression, she saw Xander's face, the axe coming down on him, her fumbled spell, Faith's intervention. Amazing how much could happen in that short a span of time, she thought, and grew somber.  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
His voice was gentle, prodding, but she didn't want to talk about it. She __really didn't want to talk about it. Okay, actually, she _did_ want to talk about it; she just didn't want to feel the embarrassment that would come along with the telling. But it was Giles, and he'd already seen her at her worst last night, and he hadn't turned away. This was nothing compared to that. Besides, she needed him; needed him to understand so that she could be okay with everything, needed him to tell her that everything would be okay. All these years, all this time, she'd struggled to stand on her own, and still it came back to him. He was the father figure to all of them, and she guessed they still needed him. Would there ever come a time when they didn't?  
  
"Giles…" she swallowed, seeming to flinch from the sound of her own voice. She took a breath and forced the words out. "I really screwed up tonight. Xander… Xander almost died. I tried—I started to cast a spell… but if Faith hadn't…" She trailed off and shook her head. "It's just… after what happened with __last night's spell…" She heard herself spouting random sentences and ellipses, not able to finish a complete thought, and shook her head at herself in wonder. "I'm really not telling this very well, am I?"  
  
"Is that why you didn't finish casting the spell to stop the demon tonight?" Giles asked softly.  
  
He _did_ understand. Still, it was hard for her to take the next step, make the next admission. "Giles… what if my power got away from me like that again? What if… what if I hurt someone I care about by accident?" She looked at him with round, miserable eyes, and yet part of her was relieved to have gotten that out.  
  
He didn't look surprised by what she'd said, but he seemed uneasy. "Willow… I understand why you're frightened. I—I'm afraid of that happening, as well," he stuttered out, clearly not comfortable with the admission. "But you—you can't just stop using magic all together because it scares you."  
  
Had she heard him right? "What?" Willow stared at him. "But—but I thought—"  
  
"If what happened last night was real, it happened because you were forced to defend yourself and you weren't prepared. You __will be attacked again," he promised. "Or someone will. Next time will be no different than the last if you do not learn to control the magic, control yourself."  
  
"But Giles… what if I can't?" She was torn, inconsolable for a moment, and then she hurried on in an eager rush, as if desperate to convince him. "If I just stopped using it, or if I never—"  
  
"And if Xander had died?"  
  
She looked away and said nothing.  
  
"Willow the magic is a part of you. You can't just shut it off or stop using it like it's some kind of drug. That would be…" he searched for words. "You would be repressing yourself. Denying a part of you that is essential to who you are. The consequences of that could be just as devastating."  
  
"But… but maybe who I am isn't good!" she blurted out. "Maybe I'm… bad, and wrong and, and full of l-lecherous evil!"  
  
"Lecherous?" He smiled with a gentle raise of brows.  
  
"It was all I could come up with in a pinch." She shrugged with an apologetic attempt at a smile.  
  
"Do you really believe that?"  
  
"No. I don't know." A pause and a rustling sigh. "Maybe."  
  
"Willow, you can't go in living in fear. The magic __is part of you, but it is only part. You are the vessel that defines how it will be used. Whatever happened last night, whatever will happen, it comes from you. You have to come to terms with your power. With yourself."  
  
"And if I don't?"  
  
"Magic isn't sentient, Willow, but it _is_ a force. Without a proper moral compass to keep it on course, it can slip its chains. Power corrupts, but absolute power corrupts absolutely." A shadow passed uneasily over his face, and though he hesitated only a moment with the words, she could tell he didn't want to speak them. "If you do not master yourself, the magic will become your master. Through the part of you that hates, or desires, or craves power, it will escape, and it will devour you completely. And it will happen because you _want_ it to."  
  
She wanted to argue, tell him how wrong he was. She was okay, wasn't she? She had it under control, right? If she just tucked it away, kept it locked away in a safe little box at the bottom of her soul, maybe she could get through her whole life without ever having to look at it again. The sound of crunching bones echoed inside her mind, dying screams, reptilian skin crushed to pulp beneath the power of her hands. _These hands_, she thought looking down at them, and they shook slightly in response to the thought. She didn't want the horror of that wanton, gleeful destruction inside her ever again… but what if Giles was right? What if it wasn't the magic? What if it was always there, inside? And if it was, how could she ever be sure it wouldn't break free again?   
  
She slumped, defeated. "But… how, Giles? I don't know how."  
  
"Meditation. Study. Practice. Knowing your limitations. Keeping your emotions as separate as you can from what you wish to accomplish." He offered all these things lightly, and she could tell that he hadn't yet said everything he wanted to. "Magic works best when you do not seek to bend it to your will." That was closer to what he wanted to say.  
  
"You mean use my powers unselfishly for 'good'?" She asked, feeling almost sheepish. She was trying to get at the root of what he was hinting at. Practice, study, meditation, all that stuff probably did help a lot, but it wasn't the root, was it?  
  
"Something like that." Giles gave her a small smile. "But Willow," he went on, voice low with warning, and here, she knew, was the point he'd been getting to all along. "Understand; this is not an easy thing, nor an immediate one. It requires discipline, study and training, but those things alone are not enough. You're going to have to look deeply into yourself, face things about yourself you may not like and come to terms with them. The magic is only as balanced as its user."  
  
"Oh." She looked momentarily chagrined as she took that in. "Um… isn't there like, a rule book or something easier?"  
  
"Would that there were," he commiserated.  
  
She was about to say more, but then the door to the room burst open and Angel stood there, gigantic leather-bound tome in hand.   
  
"Giles." His voice was anxious, almost desperate.  
  
Willow didn't know what was more frightening; the worry in Angel's voice or the way Giles' face paled at the sound of it.  
  
The Watcher hurried across the room and Angel hefted the book into Giles' arms, pointing to a passage even as he looked away, as if he couldn't stand to look at what he'd read there. Giles read the passage, once, twice, then a third time before he removed his glasses, face going slack with horror and disbelief.  
  
"Dear God, no."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"And so there I am, clothes half torn off, straddling this thing and trying to pin it to the floor, hanging on to its horns while it thrashes around like a bucking bronco, all gruntin' and hollerin' and sweaty, and in walks Sister Mary Theresa with a bunch of orphan Annie's."  
  
"Guess they weren't exactly crying hallelujah," Xander said with a chuckle.  
  
"Oh, there was crying all right, just not the happy kind." Faith grinned as she shoved open the door to the shop. "They chased me and the demon both right out of the church, calling us 'fornicators' and 'so—"  
  
She broke off in midstream, her smile fading like an ugly bruise.  
  
"What?"  
  
Every eye in the room was fixed on her with silent appraisal, and she could feel the apprehension. It hung over everyone like a thick, taut web, spun with suspicion and mild guilt, with Faith herself at its nexus. Not that long ago, they'd all looked at her with a measure of this mistrust. She hadn't realized how much it had faded in the last few weeks, and now that she did, she realized that she hadn't missed it. Not even a little.   
  
Giles rose from the table, clearing his throat and slipping his hands into his pockets. That usually meant he was mulling something over, figuring something out, or terribly uncomfortable with the situation. She could guess which one of the three this was.  
  
"We, ah, found something. In one of the books."  
  
"Was it the recipe for how to bake a better ziti? 'Cause if it was, I want in." Oh yeah, stay flip, stay casual. Don't let them see for a second how riled you are.  
  
"Ah, n-no. Not actually." Giles glanced down at his feet, looking as if he'd like to crawl out of his own skin. "We, ah, found a passage about the apocalypse."  
  
She took a step forward, excited, forgetting herself for a moment. "Well that's great! What is it?"  
  
Giles refused to look up, and it was Angel, her sweet, confusing, and utterly baffling Angel, who spoke.  
  
"'And the Master shall rise, his vessel given life again in this world, and he shall lead the vampires and demons to their promised land, with the Slayer at his side.'"  
  
Her blood turned to ice, frozen in her veins. Solid and still, mind blank, uncomprehending, she looked to Angel, beseeching, and when he didn't look at her it made her heart ache even more.  
  
"No. That can't be right." The words were flat, faraway, uttered through numb lips by a mind that wanted desperately to believe what it said. She shook her head and felt her world unraveling all around her, careful constructs of trust and tentative belief in herself coming apart at the seams like an old rag doll that had seen too many years and not enough love. "No."  
  
Giles still would not meet her eyes, and the gaze of everyone else had gone elsewhere, staring at other items in the store with an interest so feigned that even the most challenged mental patient could have seen it was fake.  
  
"It has to be wrong!" Anger, fear, barely restrained tears hovered on the verge, and she pushed them back, not willing to give in. Not yet. It had to be wrong. _Had_ to be.  
  
"Faith…" Giles said at last, his voice low and reluctant. "It's one in a series of prophecies."  
  
"So!" she tried to scoff. "What—what does _that_ mean?"  
  
"It doesn't mean anything," Angel said, rising from his seat with determination. He met her eyes at last, sad and torn, but resolute, then glanced around at everyone else, as if daring them to challenge him. If she had been able, she might have smiled. Angel could be so quiet, so soft-spoken, but sometimes, his voice echoed with thunder no matter how loud he spoke. "You told me yourself, Giles, this Oracle said Faith would be Savior or Destroyer. We knew something like this was a possibility. It could go either way."  
  
"It—it may not come true," Giles allowed, awkward and oddly deferential. "But… it—it is a prophecy, and prophecies are almost always absolute."  
  
"Not this time." The determination in Faith's voice could have stopped Medusa herself in her tracks, turned her own power against her and made her into stone.  
  
"Per-perhaps," Giles acquiesced. "But we must be very careful, stay on guard, be aware of everything that could lead to such a, a catastrophe."  
  
"Right. So we'll be on guard." Faith nodded, mind still trying to catch up to the situation, to regain control somehow. No wonder everyone had been looking at her like she was the big bad; she might as well already be, as far as they were concerned. Didn't take much to turn the dial back, did it? For them to fall back on their hatred and suspicion of her. She could hardly blame them for it… and yet, she hated them for mistrusting her at all, prophecy or not. She hated that she mistrusted herself.  
  
_Savior or Destroyer_, her mind whispered insidiously. She shook it off, tucked it away in the back of her mind, and proceeded to ignore it. Old habits. So easy.  
  
"I'm not going to let it happen, Giles. We'll figure something out. There has to be a way."   
  
"Yes. We'll… figure something out."  
  
"Damned right we will." It was her moment to run, to fade away and hide from the looks everyone was giving her, to rage against the darkness on her own, as she'd always done. And part of her was primed to do it, more than ready. But be damned if she'd come this far to back down now on account of some moldy old book. She never gave the idea so much as a moment of entertainment. She moved toward him, more determined than ever.   
  
"Let's have a look at this prophecy. In fact, let's have a look at all of them."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith slipped into the back alley a while later, printed passages like damning fire burning in her mind. She pressed a shaky hand to her forehead and sighed, forcing herself to calm down. They were only words, after all, ink that had been written on paper by humans like her. Nothing to lose her head about.  
  
"Bad night?" Spike asked, slipping from the shadows like a smirking wraith. And oh, she didn't need this, not right now.   
  
She didn't answer and he shrugged, started to light a cigarette, and she stopped him. "You got another one of those?"  
  
He eyed her curiously for a moment, then with a challenging, disbelieving raise of his brows, pulled one free and offered it to her.  
  
She put it to her lips and let him light it, dragging heavily. "Thanks. Been a while. Smoked a lot of these in prison. Not much else to do." She shrugged. He only looked at her, and then she offered, in a dull, dead voice, "The Master's coming back."  
  
His brows rose again, and he leaned back against the wall near her, taking a drag of his own cigarette. "Persistent little bugger, isn't he?"  
  
"Yeah. Worse than that? Apparently I'm gonna be playing on __his team."  
  
He gave her a look that would have sent her into a fit of giggles, had she been in a more laughing state of mind. She almost laughed, anyway, but she was afraid of how it would sound. She didn't want to hear the hysteria in her voice.  
  
"Tell me about it."  
  
She did.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith and Spike entered the shop to find Giles in a state of "flustration", as Faith had come to term it.  
  
"I simply don't understand how the Master could come back. His bones were crushed and the blood of all those closest to him when he died is, is no longer available. It simply doesn't seem possible. Perhaps the entire prophecy is a lie."  
  
"Or maybe there's another way to do it," Angel suggested.  
  
Giles' eyes flickered toward the vampire with annoyance and reluctance. "I don't see how."  
  
"M-maybe someone else's blood would work? I mean, um, if they were powerful enough or something," Tara offered, tentative.  
  
"Blackwell," Willow muttered, eyes distant with the realization, then focusing on Giles with excitement. "She's the key to all this, right? So maybe there's some way she can be used to bring the Master back. Something we don't know about. I mean, there's got to be a reason she's so important, right?" She glanced around for confirmation.  
  
Giles rubbed a hand over his chin, thoughtful. "Yes, perhaps. We haven't yet been able to figure out why she's key in triggering the apocalypse. Perhaps that's why." He frowned, troubled. "But there's no mention of it anywhere that we've been able to find. Nothing that tells how the Master will be reborn."  
  
"What do you know about your friend's powers?" Faith asked, turning on Tenth.  
  
The big man looked uncomfortable as he shrugged. "Nothing. In the Order we're not allowed to know anything of our comrades power unless we become partners, or it could be used against them, somehow."  
  
"Oh, that's just great," Anya put in, sardonic. "Our biggest resource of information and you know squat."  
  
"If we could go to her, set her free, then maybe we could stop this," Tenth replied, his tone angry and offended.  
  
Everyone fell silent for a moment, considering that.  
  
"Giles," Faith began, an idea forming slowly. "He's right. If we went and got Blackwell out of wherever she is, then she couldn't be used for… whatever she's being used for."  
  
"Yes. But Faith, to do so might be like walking into the lion's den at this point. We simply don't know enough. We'd be running in half-cocked."  
  
"Lion's den?" Tenth asked, voice terse.  
  
Giles and Willow exchanged an uneasy glance. "Yes," Giles replied with caution. "The place where she is located is underground, most likely a part of our enemy's territory."  
  
"And you just want to let her stay there?" the large man demanded, enraged.  
  
Faith stepped up and laid a hand on the man's chest. "Easy, big guy." She turned to Giles, contemplative. "Why didn't you tell us this before?"  
  
"We only discovered it last night. I thought it might be wise not cause anyone undue stress, since we decided not to go in immediately." He gave Tenth a glance that was half apology, half annoyance, and shrugged, letting it go at that.  
  
"So you'd let her stay there, in the arms of an enemy?" Tenth raged, stepping forward.  
  
"You know, you're only proving him right," Faith said as she shoved him back, eyes cool as she turned on him. "Look, Mr. Universe. Right now you're here because you're helpful. Start being a pain in the ass and I'll kick yours so hard you'll wish you'd never laid eyes on us. Whatever's going on with your friend, I think we're gonna be taking care of it real soon, so why don't you just have a seat while we hash this out?"  
  
Tenth eyed her angrily for a long moment, debating, and then he subsided, reluctantly falling into a nearby chair.  
  
"Giles, I think he might have a point," Faith said, turning toward the Watcher when she was satisfied that the warrior was done.  
  
"Faith, you can't go in there. Knowing what we know now, it would be idiotic to send you into the enemy's lair."  
  
"Knowing what we know now," she contradicted, "it might be idiotic not to. Everything we know points to Blackwell being the key to this. If we get her out, maybe we stop the Master before he rises; stop the apocalypse before it happens. I don't know about you, but I'm totally on board with that. In fact, I'm so on board with that, I think I've got a first class seat."  
  
"Yes, I understand. But Faith, so long as we have time to research and find out what the specific connection is—"  
  
"Well, when's the 'Night of Sansain'?" Anya asked.   
  
Everyone stared at her, faces blank.  
  
"Because it says here that that's when it's going to happen."  
  
"What?" Giles asked, blinking in confusion.  
  
Anya shifted her shoulders with impatience and lifted her book up to the Watcher. "'The Night of Sansain'. You know?" She glanced down at the book and quoted from it. "The night when the walls between this world and others grow the thinnest?"  
  
Giles fairly snatched the book from her hands. "Sansain… of course! That would be the perfect night to bring back the Master."  
  
"Of course," Xander echoed, feigning infinite wisdom. "Sansain, 'cause that's…" He gave up the pretense and turned to Giles. "What the hell __is that?"  
  
"It's the night that the legend of Halloween grew from, when the evil spirits draw closest to the earth. It later came to be celebrated by the druids as Samhain. It's, it's the night when the barrier between this world and others grows thinnest, allowing evil spirits to pass through more easily. It only happens once every three centuries. I'd never even thought…" He turned the pages quickly back and forth, frowning. "It was calculated by the Mesopotamian calendar, originally." He set the book down, hurried to a shelf, perused the volumes there and drew down another, turning pages like lightning. "According to this…"  
  
He trailed off and Faith thought she might actually burst with anticipation. "What? When?"  
  
"According to this… it happens in six days."  
  
She was calm, steady for a moment as she took that in. It's okay. I'm gonna be okay, she thought. Wow, look at me, the picture of togetherness. Wouldn't B be proud?  
  
And then the room exploded in a chorus of voices.  
  
"Six _days_?!"  
  
"But Halloween was months ago!"  
  
"I said Halloween was _based_ on it."  
  
"What are we going to do?"  
  
"We have to stop it."  
  
"We have to go _now_!"  
  
"Are you sure that's the night?"  
  
"Six _days_?!"  
  
And then the vertigo set in and Faith blinked, putting one hand out on the back of a chair to steady herself. _Six days_. Fuck. What was she going to do in _six days_? She had no idea… and then her brain bloomed in a flower of bright white light.  
  
_I'll tell you what I'm gonna do in six days_, she spoke up mentally, contradicting the nay-saying voice in her mind.  
  
"I'm gonna go in and get her, that's what I'm gonna do."  
  
Everyone stopped, looked at her, and she saw wariness reflected in every eye. Okay, every eye except two. Okay, make that two __sets of eyes. Not that it surprised her much, but it did make her feel one hell of a lot better. Knowing she could count Angel and Spike on her side was worth more than damned near anything.  
  
"Faith," Giles spoke up, slow and muddied. "You can't."  
  
"I can. And I'm gonna. Giles, we don't have time! You said yourself that if we had time we'd take it, but we don't anymore."  
  
"And what gives you the right to decide anything?" Xander asked, voice cool, level, holding that same challenging note he'd had earlier when he'd challenged her to best him.  
  
She wanted very badly to plead with him to understand. Wanted to plead on whatever little friendship they'd cultivated over the last few hours or weeks to trust in her. But she knew that wasn't going to get things done. She took a step nearer to him, folded her arms over her chest and looked down at him almost imperiously. And it was arrogant, calculated, but in that moment she also felt the knowledge and confidence of her own power. The power she'd been bestowed as the Chosen.  
  
"Because it's my job."  
  
"And if we decide we don't want to play?"  
  
She gave him a thin, fractured smile. "Then you can get the hell out, now."  
  
"Hey! You don't just, just get to walk in here and start giving orders," Willow said, rising from her seat, angry now, as well.  
  
"You're not part of us," Xander added, coldly.  
  
Willow looked at him, askance, seeming to teeter on the edge of agreeing with him.  
  
"Beg to differ. I _am_ part of you, like it or not, and if you can't get that through your head, you might as well throw in the towel right now. Because the way I figure it? There ain't gonna be any stopping this apocalypse unless we're all in this together. I'm the one out there putting my ass on the line, I'm the one on the line for this apocalypse, so I figure that pretty much gives me the right to be in charge."  
  
She put both her hands on the back of the chair and leaned over it, looking each of them very deliberately and directly in the eye, in turn. "So unless any of you are ready to step up and fill my shoes, I suggest you all fall in line."  
  
Xander leapt to his feet, face dark. "Oh, I don't think so."  
  
"Xander," Giles interjected quietly. "She's right. This is bigger than us. Much bigger than the worries and problems we have between us."  
  
"Excuse me, Mr. Watcher Guy," Xander said, raising one hand and turning on the thick, viscous sarcasm. "But Miss Psycho Killer here is prophesized to turn on us. Or did you forget?"  
  
"I think that Faith has more than proven herself at this point, Xander. And certainly none of us can walk into the enemy's territory alone. Time being what it is, prophecy or not… I don't see as we have much choice. If the worst happens, we'll deal with it then.  
  
Xander made as if to retort, but Giles cut him off, ignoring the younger man as he looked to the Slayer. "Are you sure you're ready for this, Faith?"  
  
It was as if he'd reached into her mind and plucked the words from her dream days before. For a moment, she faltered, feeling exposed as every eye in the room turned on her again, and a shadow fell over her face. She tucked a lock of hair behind one ear and met his eyes, nodding once.  
  
"I have to be."  
  
And Giles' heart throbbed once, painfully, as he saw the steel in her. In that moment, she was every inch the Slayer; vulnerable and sad, resigned to the undoubtedly terrible fate that awaited her, and yet she was strong enough, brave enough to bear the burden and do what needed to be done. It was clear in the line of her stance, the curve of her posture, the set of her jaw and the fire in her eyes. In that moment, she reminded him more of Buffy than ever, and he was, strangely, somehow, terribly proud, and at the same, vaguely sad. Perhaps all Watchers were both proud and sad to see their charges come into their own. Or perhaps he'd simply grown fond of her.   
  
"Giles…" Xander lifted his hand again as if he didn't quite know what to do with it and made one last attempt to appeal to what he considered sanity. "The Oracle said she would betray us."  
  
"That's not exactly what she—" Tenth began.  
  
And was cut off as Faith slammed her hands down on the table and leaned even lower, staring up at Xander through narrowed, predatory eyes that danced with bitter humor.  
  
"I'm not gonna let that happen. And if it did?" The corner of her mouth quirked upward in a mirthless smile. "You wouldn't be able to stop it, anyway."  
  
"We could kill you now," he answered steadily. "Save ourselves the trouble."  
  
"I don't think you want to try that," Angel said, voice low and dangerous.  
  
"I don't think anyone asked you, Dead Daddy Dearest."  
  
Faith ignored the entire exchange, heading it off before it could escalate. "Except I'm the best hope you've got. One prophecy says yes, the Oracle says maybe. Not exactly betting odds, but they're better odds than we usually get. I'm the Savior or Destroyer, remember? Kill me now and you lose any chance of winning." She let that sink in a moment, watching his face, knowing she'd won, then stood straight and tossed her hair back. "This is __my show, now. Buy a ticket or get out."  
  
Xander clenched his jaw and looked away. "This doesn't make everything okay between us."  
  
"And you know, if I actually cared about that, that might be a problem." She fixed him with a dark stare. "I don't know what your deal is, but if you still want a piece of me after this is over, I might just give you a chance at it. But for now, we call truce." She looked around at everyone. "We __all call truce. Deal?"  
  
There were scattered mutters, a lot of shifting and shuffling, but in the end, they all nodded.  
  
And if her heart was hammering in her chest, they couldn't hear it. And if fear was pulsing in her veins, they couldn't sense it. And if there was a tremor in her voice, they mistook it for anger. And for all those things, she was intensely grateful.  
  
"Great." She sealed the agreement with her tone and moved on. "Let's get down to business."  
  
  
  
_


	12. Mortal Ground 2 Chapter 12: Revenant

CHAPTER 12: REVENANT  
  
This is a mean old world to live in,   
And I can't face it all by myself, at all.   
And, dogs begin to bark,   
all over my neighborhood.   
The dogs begin to bark,   
all over my neighborhood.   
I got a feelin' about the future,   
and it ain't too good, I know that.   
I know, I know, I know.   
Ain't superstitious,   
but a black cat crossed my trail.   
Bad luck ain't got me so far,   
and you know I ain't gonna let it stop me now.  
  
            ~Superstitious, Rod Stewart  
______________________________________________  
  
"Here's the deal." Faith folded her arms over her chest and paced a step or two, dark eyes glittering like hard candy as she looked them over. "We go in hard and fast with a small team, get Blackwell and get out."  
  
"That's it?" Xander asked, sounding stunned.  
  
"Faith…" Angel hesitated. "The last time someone tried to resurrect the Master, they lured Buffy out so they could kidnap Giles and Willow. This could be the same kind of trap."  
  
She gave him a tight, vague smile that was laced with bitterness and amusement. "I know. That's why _you're_ staying here."  
  
Angel went completely blank for a moment (which Faith noted as something of an accomplishment), and then looked at her with a kind of offended ire that would have been comical under other circumstances. "No."  
  
"We need someone here to protect everyone while I'm gone. Someone who can fight."  
  
"Everyone here can fight." So quiet and stern, there was nothing soft about him just then, and yet he reminded her of a little boy somehow, one that wants his way and intends to have it.  
  
"As good as you can?" He dropped his eyes and she figured the silence was just as telling as any spoken answer would have been.  
  
"We've done just fine on our own, before." Xander sounded slightly defensive. "Wait, I'm arguing your side." He turned to Anya, as if uncertain. "Am I arguing her side?"  
  
"You heard him." Angel stood up straight, reaffirmed, as if the decision had been made, and she sighed.  
  
"Your son is here, Angel. What if something happened? You can't leave him. It has to be you."  
  
He looked like she'd sucker punched him in the stomach, and that was okay, because pretty much, she had.  
  
The surprise and hurt vanished almost instantly, and Angel's face tightened, eyes filling with familiar, helpless brooding. He thought about bringing the kid for a second, she could see it, but she saw he knew just as well as she did what stupid idea that would be. She could tell he felt he had the right to go with her, that he should be the one, if anyone, to go with her. Maybe he even felt a little bit of a need to watch over her, protect her. Maybe she even wanted him to… But the time for all that was long past.  
  
"Spike and Tenth go with me. The smaller the group, the less chance we have of getting caught. That leaves you as the only heavy hitter besides Willow. There needs to be a fighter here. You're it," she said simply, and shrugged. And it sounded casual, certain and inarguable, just like she'd planned it. How easily the words left her mouth. It was almost amazing. Guess that's what a lifetime of lying and covering your ass would do for you. It just didn't seem right that those same qualities should help when it came to playing leader.  
  
He opened his mouth, and she could have sworn she could _see_ a dozen arguments in there, just dying to leap out, and then he slowly closed it again, looked down at the table and nodded. Connor was the one thing he couldn't argue around, no matter how much he wanted to. She could imagine all too easily what would happen if the vampires showed up here, and she imagined he could, too.  
  
"Good. Okay, I'm gonna need to get some weapons and—"  
  
"You're going tonight?" Everyone seemed startled by that.   
  
"Patience; not really one of my… whatever you call those things."  
  
"Virtues?" Giles suggested.  
  
"Yeah, those. I'm pretty sure I don't have any of those. In fact, I'm probably lucky I even know what that means." She shrugged and gave a thin smile. "Besides, the apocalypse is six days away. I'm thinking we get her out of there tonight that gives us at least five days to party. Hell, maybe the whole month if she turns out to be the key to this thing."  
  
"Even if you do manage to get her away safely, it's unlikely that Daeonira will simply leave town," Giles said, almost chiding.  
  
"I know. But hey, we can hope, right?"  
  
"You're not going to engage her," Giles half-stated, half-asked.  
  
"Not unless I have to." She turned to Spike and Tenth, who had already taken up positions near her. "You guys ready to rock n' roll?"  
  
The looks they gave her said they were more than ready.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Forty-five minutes later, Faith's wounds were dressed, she'd taken the Angaturan antidote, Willow had shown them Blackwell's location on the map of tunnels, and they were stocked and ready to go.  
  
She checked her inventory one last time, fighting down the nervous butterflies that flitted through her stomach. It felt like a parade of butterflies down there, complete with marching bands, majorettes and giant floats. Looking over her gear was as good an excuse as any not to meet anyone's eyes, and though it couldn't have been more than a couple minutes, she looked herself over so long that Tenth began to shift with impatience.  
  
"Well, go on," she snapped. "I'll be out in a second."  
  
He nodded and went without hesitation. So much fun, that guy. At least he'd had a _slight_ sense of humor before they'd figured out where his friend was. Now he was all business.   
  
"You, too," she urged Spike when he didn't immediately move. The guy was fidgeting like he needed a dose of Ritalin, and all she wanted was for both of them to get out.  
  
Spike raised his brows, lingered a moment, looking her over, then shoved his hands deep in his duster and drew his shoulders up as he walked out.  
  
She was all alone in the training room, and she took the moment just to breathe.  
  
_Come on, Faith, get a grip. You can do this. Don't let them see a moment of weakness, not an instant of doubt or they'll—  
  
_The door opened again, slowly, and she knew who it was before it opened far enough for her to see. The butterflies slammed together in one big lump and fell to the bottom of her stomach, tiny wings fluttering weakly with panic. She hadn't wanted to have to face Angel again before she left; her heart was hammering and her stomach felt like lead, and yet, at the same time, she was overjoyed to see him. No wonder people were so damned crazy. It was a wonder they got by at all without a permanent supply of mood-altering drugs.  
  
"I… wanted to talk to you before you go." He darted dark eyes at her, hesitant and unsure.   
  
And despite the warm, fuzzy feeling it gave her, she bristled. Or maybe that was _why_ she bristled. "If this is the part where you give a speech about destiny and noble death and all that crap, save it for when I get back," she said, brisk and annoyed as she began to shove past him. He grabbed her arm, gently, ever so gently, and pulled her back a step, looking at her intently.  
  
"I _will_ be back," she said, sounding more defensive.  
  
"I know." And she could see the truth of it in his eyes, in the funny little half-smile that played about his lips.  
  
She looked at him askance, confused by his manner. "Good."  
  
"I just wish I could be there."  
  
She glanced down, self-conscious, and shrugged to play it off. "Yeah… me too." And she did. Oh, God, she did. Even now she was fighting temptation not to break down and beg him to come with her. If Angel were there she'd be safe, protected, she wouldn't have to worry about anything. And that was exactly what she _didn't_ need right now. Still, the words hovered on the tip of her tongue, tingling there, and reluctantly she drew them back, knowing she couldn't do it. She couldn't risk it. Everything might depend on this. And Angel, Angel who knew so much, who it seemed sometimes knew everything, didn't know. He didn't know the real reason she couldn't take him with her, and if things turned out half as well as she hoped they would, he'd never have to.  
  
A pause, a heartbeat or two. "I wanted to give you something." And now he was shy and hesitant again, the confidence of a moment ago completely gone. He fumbled a chain out of his pocket, handling it carefully.  
  
She stared at the object for a moment, more confused than ever. It was possibly the biggest, gaudiest cross she'd ever seen in her life. Madonna would have adored it.  
  
"You always carry crosses around in your pocket? Seems kind of like an occupational hazard."  
  
"They come in handy," he answered with a shrug. He was silent, contemplative as he considered the thin silver chain links, and she could tell he was thinking of the past. "I know it's not original." He seemed embarrassed. "I gave one of these to Buffy once. It seemed… like a requirement for the Slaying business. I don't know if it did any good, but I felt better, knowing she was wearing it."  
  
She blinked. What the hell was he trying to say, here? Didn't matter. Cover with humor. "So does this mean we're like, going steady now?" Reapply as necessary.   
  
He blinked in return, freezing up, and she grinned, taking the chain from his hands. "Just kidding. It's a little retro, but hey, you never know." She shifted her demeanor forward, all thrusters go, set on casual. Didn't want to make this into a big deal, didn't want damage their relationship. She didn't know exactly what their relationship _was_, except that it was stupid, and complicated, and it often felt insurmountable, but at least it was something. He cared, in some way, and that was all that mattered.  
  
Funny, the things that suddenly became clear when you thought you might be about to die.  
  
He smiled a little, and nodded, and she smiled back uncertainly.  
  
"Um… thanks."  
  
He nodded again, and there was an awkward moment where she didn't quite know what to do. She was reminded of the time—it seemed so long ago now—in his mansion, when there'd been no barriers between them, nothing but intense skin and words and emotion. This moment was exactly like that—unless you counted the strained silence and the incredible discomfort. But the emotion, some kind of emotion, anyway, was definitely there.  
  
"Here, let me put it on for you."  
  
She turned and he draped the chain around her neck, and she felt his fingers fumble with the clasp at the back of her neck, skin grazing over hers with tiny, delicious chills. She closed her eyes and felt the nearness of him, the comfort, indulging in it freely for an instant, knowing it might be the last time. Oh, she talked big, all right. But then, she always had. She had no idea if she was coming back from this mission. For all she knew she might die, or be turned, or succumb to the darkness in her own soul. This might not be the apocalypse, might not be the final, penultimate battle, but the stakes were just as high as they ever got, and she was keyed up as hell, was hyper-aware that this could be her last moment for everything.  
  
She turned back toward him when it was done, and he only looked at her, eyes speaking to her in some cryptic language she wasn't quite sure she understood.  
  
"Be careful."  
  
"I will."  
  
They stared at each other for a long moment, faces close, closer than friends should be. Treading on dangerous ground, they were, and yet neither of them moved, did not so much as breathe. Or so it seemed.   
  
"Angel…"  
  
He shook his head gently and gave her a small, ironic smile. "Save it for when you get back." It was all he said, but she could see in his eyes that he knew already what she would have said. Knew everything except the one thing she'd been careful to hide.  
  
If this were a movie, she thought, they would kiss now. But it wasn't. He wasn't Prince Charming and she was hardly a Princess waiting to be rescued. It struck her then that she was the hero in this particular drama.   
  
She hoped that somewhere there was a script for it with a happy ending.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
As they made their way through the Sunnydale graveyard to the entrance Willow had pointed out, Faith had Tenth scout ahead and lead, partially to keep him focused and busy, but mostly to give herself some time to think things over.  
  
Spike strutted along beside her, occasionally casting her a knowing, sidelong glance, and she ignored him for as long as she could. It wouldn't be long before his mouth got the better of him and they'd be off and running, pending apocalypse notwithstanding; another day at the sarcastic races.  
  
"Where'd you get that ugly thing?" he asked, placing strange, British emphasis on the last two words.  
  
"Hellmouth yard sale," she shot back, amazed at the breezy note in her voice.  
  
"Hmph," he grunted. "Pope's going to be wanting that back, you know. Catholic Church has the market cornered on tacky martyr accessories."  
  
She gave a surprised chuckle and shook her head. "Well, when he's got the market cornered on fighting Hellmouth monsters, then we can talk."  
  
He tromped through the damp grass, silent and contemplative. "So you've got this all figured out, have you?"  
  
"Hey, I figure the two dozen POW movies I watched over and over in prison can't be wrong. How different can it be?"   
  
He gave her a look that made her upper lip want to curl in a snarl. "I've got it under control," she asserted, voice sharp, commanding.  
  
"Well," he aggrandized with trademarked sarcasm. "Doesn't sound like you need any help."  
  
Her expression darkened, and she looked away, not wanting to play this game anymore. The time for playing games had been over since the moment she'd found out about the apocalypse, and though it still stung her pride to speak the truth, she found that it came with only a little difficulty. "I told you before; I can't do it alone." Her voice was measured, steady.  
  
"Thought you'd want your lover boy by your side. Knight in shining armor and all that."  
  
"He's not my lover." Angrier now, more strident.  
  
Spike snorted. "You're wearing that God awful thing he gave you 'round your neck—that's _got_ to be love."  
  
"It doesn't matter." She was quiet with finality as she stopped walking and turned on him, surprised at how true it was, and he only stared at her, looking just as surprised.  
  
And now the words came hard. "It's got to be you, Spike. You're the only one I can trust…" She ran a hand through her hair, refused to meet his eyes. "Angel might hesitate. I know you won't."  
  
And he saw it all, then, big, bright and perfectly written. Neat, concise, writing on the wall in huge indelible letters.  
  
"You're afraid that they're right. That you're going to go over to the black hats."  
  
"It _is_ a prophecy," she argued, halfhearted.  
  
"You're afraid of yourself," he realized out loud.  
  
"Well duh!" she exploded. "Did you see the big, blinking neon sign or did you manage to figure that one out with three working brain cells you have left?" She grabbed her hair and twisted it back from her face, aggravated. Took a breath, tried to calm herself. "Look. If it comes down to it, I need to know… I need to know that…"  
  
"That I'll take you out." It wasn't a question. He understood all too well what she meant. It pained him slightly to think that he might have to do it, that she _wanted_ him to do it. But he knew that of them all, he was the only one who could do it with any kind of a clear conscience. He could. And they both knew it. And he didn't know if he liked the truth of that.  
  
"Yeah." She met his eyes at last.  
  
"Could always let Harris have a go," he teased, the hint of smirk ghosting over his features.  
  
She gave a gusty laugh that felt like relief. "Hah. Yeah, I bet that'd be a real turn on for him. But…" she turned serious again, like turning on a dime. "But when I go… _if_ I go," she corrected with determination, "I want it to be by someone who…" A dozen words flitted through her mind, dozens of fancy sayings and meaningful quotes. She disregarded them all. "Someone who _understands_."  
  
He took a moment to soak that in. For most people, that wouldn't have been much, would have meant almost nothing, compared to what they'd like to hear. But he _did_ understand. And he knew that her admittance of that meant more than anything else she could have said.  
  
He nodded. "Looks like I'm your man."  
  
And amazingly, she grinned. "No. You're not." She tilted her head and gave him a long, hard, hungry look. "But there but for the grace of God…"  
  
He rolled his tongue against the inside of his cheek and smirked.  
  
And then she grabbed him by the back of the neck and did what she could not do, dared not do, _wished_ she had done to Angel; she kissed him, mouth as hungry and hard as the look she'd given him a moment ago. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her back with matching passion, demanding all that she would give.  
  
It was a long, torrid moment before they finally drew apart, and then she looked up at him, still grinning.  
  
"For old time's sake," she said, sliding a hand down his sharp cheekbone.  
  
Then she turned from his embrace and gathered her wits, the rush of the kiss not leaving her easily. Beneath the pregnant moon there was nothing between them but the sound of the mild California breeze, and she closed her eyes, listening to the sound, trying to collect herself. It wasn't simple chemistry that was choking her. It was fear. Fear and the knowing that this could be last time she touched another person, took another breath.  
  
"Eat, drink, and be merry…" Spike's voice interrupted her thoughts but continued in the same vein.  
  
She took a deep breath and looked back over her shoulder at him. "For tomorrow we may die," she finished the quote with flippant grace. But she turned quickly and strode off into the night, as if she wanted to leave the words behind her.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Spike took the kiss for what it was; a goodbye, a finish to things left unfinished between them. He knew that even if she survived, it would mean nothing more than that.  
  
Had it not been for Angel…  
  
The thought called up ghosts from the past, ghosts thought long dead and buried, ghosts that should have died a hundred years ago, and some that were new.  
  
Had it not been for Angel, a great _many_ things, he thought bitterly, and let it go at that.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Everyone tried to go about business as usual as best they could, but it was obviously a forced effort. Xander shuffled pages. Anya cleaned listlessly. Fox stared blankly at his monitor until it seemed his eyes would burn. Tara and Willow made awkward conversation as they perused books of their own. Giles alternated between flipping pages, looking contemplative and cleaning his glasses. Only Angel seemed intent as he read, eyes soaking up the knowledge of the pages as if his very life might depend on them.  
  
Dawn observed it all from her perch on the counter. In her lap, she cradled Connor, fascinated by his existence as she occasionally hummed to him. He was a nice excuse not to have to observe the tension around her, but even if she didn't look directly at it, she could feel it, like a slow wire tightening around her neck, threatening to choke her.  
  
Tara and Willow had come to get her just a little while ago, rousing her from sleep and explaining the situation. They'd thought, given the circumstances, that she would be safer with them. She figured that was covert-speak for 'Faith might turn psycho again'.  
  
"Giles," Angel's voice broke the silence that had descended over the shop, shattering it with dread and urgency. Everyone looked up at him, eyes sharp and afraid. Dawn clutched Connor closer to her body, suddenly scared, more scared than she had been when Willow and Tara had woken her.  
  
"What day is it?" He demanded, terse.  
  
"W-What?" Giles seemed taken aback and everyone else, though they didn't seem less worried, regarded the vampire with a little more doubt. Then again, he's a vampire, Dawn thought. Probably not much need for knowing what day it was.  
  
"What. Day. Is it?"  
  
"It's, ah, Tuesday? The, er, 15th?" Giles glanced at the calendar as if to be sure. When the vampire flinched as if the words had cut him, Giles frowned and looked at him more seriously. "Angel. What is it?"  
  
Agitated, Angel fairly twitched with foreboding. "Your calculation. It was wrong. The Mesopotamian calendar doesn't put the ritual at six days from now."  
  
"Wh-what?" The Watcher shook his head, bewildered. "But—then—when?" he stuttered out.  
  
Angel looked at him with intense, fearful eyes.  
  
"It's happening tonight."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
The tunnels began to narrow after a time, dank earth closing in around them like a velvet glove that came ever closer, dark fingers threatening to crush them in its grip. Faith slowed, motioning for the others to stop as she pulled out the map, examining it in the feeble light of her glow stick, feeling ridiculous. Maps were for vacations and tourist trips; not for tracking down a lair of vampires that might be closing in around you on all sides while you looked at a piece of paper, turning it this way and that, trying to get your bearings. Might as well write "Free Food" on the back of it in huge letters. Still, no vampires attacked and she managed to find their place after a moment, and motioned them forward, choosing a tight, tiny tunnel to the left that forced them to go forward in single file.  
  
They reached another side tunnel and detoured into it briefly, and almost instantly the earthy throat began to widen, becoming rockier as it opened up into a small chamber. She motioned to the others again, then turned, pressing her back flat against a crevice in the wall that hid her from the chamber's view. Spike and Tenth followed her lead, pressing themselves into tiny alcoves, just the edges of their faces leaning out, eyes focused on what lay before them. She could smell the sweat, the anticipation, and could feel her own beginning to build. She forced herself to be calm, and peered out carefully, taking stock of what she could see in the rock room ahead.  
  
Torches burned in iron brackets that appeared ancient, lending the stone wan, brackish light. The shifting luminescence made the room appear even more sinister than complete darkness would have, suggesting movement and shadow and the resting place of pale things that had no need for the light of day. Seeing nothing but stone, she leaned out a bit further, and saw the dull gleam of metal. It was the corner of some kind of box, as old as its wall hung metal counterparts, and if the size of the corner suggested the dimensions, it had to be pretty damned big. Emboldened, she leaned out even more, revealing more of the massive box. Not enough. She couldn't see the other side of the room.  
  
In one quick, silent movement she threw herself across the passageway, concealing herself in another crevice almost instantly. She paused, feeling sweat run down her back as she listened for any sound of detection or alarm, and slowly relaxed as none came. She leaned out again, seeing the other side of the box now, and the far wall. As far as she could see, the small chamber was completely devoid of life.  
  
She waited a moment more, until she was absolutely sure that she could hear nothing, and then detached herself from the wall, motioning Spike and Tenth behind her.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Giles stopped gaping long enough to ask, "Are you certain?"  
  
"Completely."  
  
"But…" Willow rose from her seat, frowning in confusion. "Giles, how could that be?"  
  
"Well, I—I, ah, the Mesopotamian calendar was never my, ah… it's very difficult to…" Giles attempted to defend himself. "It's difficult to translate correctly."  
  
"I've got to go to Faith. She has no idea this is happening," Angel declared with grim determination, slamming the book shut and throwing it on the table with a thud.  
  
"Yes, yes of course," Giles nodded, glanced down at the page he'd been reading. "We should all—" He broke off suddenly and froze, eyes transfixed on the book as if mesmerized by the words.  
  
"Oh. Oh, dear Lord."  
  
Tiny spiders of trepidation skittered down the length of everyone's spines, and Angel paused in mid swooping stride, head swiveling slowly toward the Watcher. The room itself seemed to hush with foreboding, and if the silence had been loud before, it was deafening now.  
  
Giles moved his lips and found he didn't have the breath to speak.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
They entered the chamber, weapons drawn, slow and cautious and they looked for any sign of movement. A second box came into view, its length hidden by its angle in comparison to the first, and at last they stopped, lowering their weapons slightly as they realized they were completely alone.  
  
"This is it," Faith whispered, trying not to hiss the sibilants. She frowned, glanced left and right again, uncertain. Why wasn't anyone here? Surely if this woman was as important as everyone seemed to think, there would be guards? Or maybe… just maybe, this was a trap.  
  
She glanced at Tenth and Spike and saw her thoughts reflected in their faces. She hesitated a moment more, then slowly went forward, brows drawn in deep thought as she considered the two large iron boxes. One was padlocked tight with a huge mechanism, and that was going to be a problem… but the other… she took another step closer. The other one was open, revealing a slit of darkness almost an inch wide.  
  
She glanced at the other two, made sure they understood her intent and that they had her back, and then she wedged the toe of her boot inside the opening, pulling the door with her foot and leaping backward.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"We… we have larger problems than, than that." Giles found his voice, though it was a pale shadow of itself, and collapsed into a chair as if all the life had suddenly drained out of him. "All these years…" he whispered, face white as paper. "I always thought…"  
  
Everyone stood, stared.  
  
"I made a terrible mistake." He looked up at them all as if a man who finds himself caught in nightmare and hopes he is waking. "The text… the ancient Sumerian was translated to Latin so badly… it said that the ritual to revive the Master required the blood of those closest to him when he died."  
  
"We know that, Giles," Willow prompted, voice commanding, as if she hoped to stave off whatever was coming.  
  
"After what happened…" He tittered a bizarre, frightening laugh. "Even the vampires misunderstood. _This_ text is quite clearly translated… It requires…" His gaze turned haunted. "The blood of the ones that were _inside_ him when he died."  
  
It seemed that no one breathed.  
  
"Only a slight mistranslation, but a meaningful one." He looked down at the book again without seeing it. "Of course. Who could be closer than the one he had drained?" His eyes snapped up and locked on Angel, shell-shocked. "She _was closest to him when he died."  
  
"Giles, what are you saying?" Willow asked, her voice a tight squeal verging on panic.  
  
Angel stood, just as frozen as Giles by the revelation, the meaning of it sinking deep into his bones with a horrible chill.  
  
"He's saying that they need Buffy's blood to complete the ritual."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith landed her leap in a fighting stance, legs and fists at the ready as the corrugated iron door swung open to reveal—  
  
Nothing. Nothing resided inside the hulking shell, unless you counted the musty, faintly rotten smell that rose to her nostrils. She held her stance a moment more, more confused than ever, then shrugged tightly at the others. Still tense, she moved toward the next box, pondering how she was going to get the damned thing open without bashing it in and rousing every vampire within a mile radius.  
  
Before she could even touch the lock, Tenth drew something from one of his many concealed pockets and stepped forward. It was a tiny glass tube, she saw, and the extreme care with which he handled it made it clear that whatever was inside it, it wasn't something he wanted to get on himself. He pulled the top from it with a faint popping sound, and gingerly poured a bit of the contents onto the lock. Smoke began to rise from the metal and he stepped back quickly, closing the tube, re-concealing it and lifting his weapon so fast that the vial might never have been there at all.  
  
A moment later the lock fell to the floor in a smoking, tangled mess of iron. Faith gave Tenth an appreciative look, then stepped up to the box. No toe this time; she'd have to pull the door by its lock loop to open it.  
  
She took a deep breath and put her hand on the metal, its surface still warm.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"Dear God," Giles murmured. "We've been looking in the wrong direction the whole time."  
  
Angel didn't hesitate. Where Faith was going was the safest place she could be.  
  
"We're _all_ going. __Now."  
  
Anya took a sudden, uncertain step toward him, confused. "What? Where?"  
  
Angel closed his eyes and steeled himself, then opened them again, trying to make the words as expressionless as possible. "They need Buffy's blood to bring the Master back. They're going to go to her grave, try to…" He tried, he tried valiantly, but he couldn't make himself finish the sentence.  
  
"Bring her back?" Willow's voice was tremulous, broken and terrified beyond all reasoning.  
  
"Yes." Giles galvanized into action as he spoke the word, turning to grab his coat.  
  
"Oh, God." Xander pulled his hands down over his face.  
  
They ran.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
_She stirs faintly, with the vague sense that something is wrong. There is little that bothers her now, in this dank, confined little world where she exists. Her arms tingle with needle pricks, both from lack of movement and far more hideous things, and she whimpers, trying to move them, trying to protect herself from what she knows is coming. Once, the world was kind. She no longer remembers how she knows this, has no specific memory of it, but she knows that it is true. She also knows, on the rudimentary level that animals know, that something dangerous is coming. She would run if she knew she still had legs and knew how to use them. She would fight if she could still lift her arms. She would scream if she still had the strength in her lungs. But she has none of these things, and so she pants in short harsh breaths, knowing that something is coming, remembering what it is, what it must be, what it _always_ is, and she twitches with the memory of fight or flight, her primitive brain not understanding that neither option is available to her now.  
  
She retreats to the furthest corner of her mind, the one they have never tamed or reached, and crouches there, trembling and afraid, knowing not what she fears.  
_  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
The Scoobies, Angel and Fox raced to Buffy's grave as if the hounds of Hell themselves were chasing them, feet pounding, hearts thudding, the world an incomprehensible, unimportant blur around them, and when at last they crested the hill, most of them panting and out breath, they paused, almost forcibly stopped by the scene before them.  
  
The clearing below seemed to gleam with moonlight, every blade of grass illuminated by the full moon above, tiny shadows standing just behind and beneath in sharp contrast. The trees that lined the clearing stood as they ever had, leaves and bark almost sharp in the fullness of light, their mystery lost in its gaudy illumination. Near one tree, toward the edge in the center, a stark headstone poked its way above the ground; a lone sentinel who bore witness to this strange beauty and was neither bothered nor moved by it.  
  
There was nothing else. The clearing was as silent and sacred as the Scoobies had ever wished it could be.  
  
Angel took several uncertain steps down the hill, then turned back to the others, his face pale and lost in the moonlight.  
  
"They're not here."  
  
His voice cracked like old bones, sending chills through them all.  
  
"They're not here," he repeated, mystified, and turned to look again, as if he might be proven wrong.  
  
The clearing stared back with blind, uncaring eyes.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith pulled open the door and quickly leapt backward, hands lining up to take out whatever might jump out of the darkness within.  
  
Adrenaline pumped hard through her, making her muscles feel like live wires, and her heart pounded so loudly in her ears that she missed the faint moan that issued from within.  
  
But Tenth didn't.  
  
He moved forward with such speed that Faith took an involuntary step backward, caught off guard—and then the big man was pulling a woman from the black insides of the box, a poor, withered, emaciated woman who had probably been beautiful before all this had happened, her Hispanic heritage stamped deeply into her face if not her name. Blackwell.  
  
"Sophia." Tenth cradled the woman in his arms as he lifted her, whispering delicate words of comfort, and Faith turned slightly away, feeling intrusive.  
  
That was when she heard the chanting.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
The streets of Sunnydale looked quiet in these early hours of the morning, homes dark and without any sign of life. Everything looked peaceful, almost serene... but behind the silent walls, life was anything but peaceful.  
  
Children moaned and cried in their sleep, woke shrieking from nightmares. Lovers clutched each other tightly in the darkness, stirred restlessly in their beds, disquieted by something they could not name. Those who were still awake found themselves pondering pills and razor blades, or perhaps the axe for chopping wood that rested in the backyard, with dark intent.  
  
Sunnydale had always been a town with death and murder in its heart, and now, that heart woke and began to beat.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Spike inclined his head slightly to the side, as if listening, and Faith knew he could hear it, too.  
  
"Tenth, get her out of here!" She snapped, abrupt.  
  
The bronze-skinned man lifted his eyes to her in confusion.  
  
"Something's happening. I—We, have to see. Get her out of here while it's still safe."  
  
And then she saw that he was hearing it, too. He hesitated for a moment, torn, and then nodded to her with great respect.  
  
"This will not be forgotten."  
  
"Great. Take out an ad in my honor when you get back, but get the hell out of here, now."  
  
He nodded once more and then retreated back the way they had come, Sophia Blackwell cradled in his arms like a baby.  
  
"What do you think?" She looked sidelong at Spike.  
  
"I think the ritual's come a few days early."  
  
She forgot to breathe for a second. "It can't be. We freed Blackwell."  
  
He glanced toward the sound then looked back at her. "No guards, no sentries on the way in… sounds like hella chanting going on down there. What do _you_ think is happening?"  
  
She thought about it, listening to the building sound of chanting voices rise from below, and was terrified by how much sense he was making. She wasn't prepared for this, wasn't ready to engage her enemy head on, alone. Well, almost alone, she amended. Maybe she could go back, get the others…  
  
_Right. And maybe the Master will be polite and just wait another hour before he pops through into the world so I can dust him easy.  
  
Now or never, Faith. Moment of truth. _She didn't recognize the voice that spoke in her mind, but she figured she got the message, anyway.  
  
She held Spike's gaze a moment more, then turned and took off at a dead run toward the sound of the voices.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Lights began to flicker on inside the houses above, voices erupting in chaos behind the drawn curtains. The doors to some of the homes opened, spilling confused and vaguely terrified people into the night, clad in their pajamas as they wandered the confines of their lawns. In the distance, sirens began to wail, the fire alarm to sound, and everywhere along the streets, dogs began to bark incessantly, heads occasionally cocking to the side as if listening to something far off and away.  
  
A few people had crawled from their beds with darkness in their breast and strange murderous voices echoing in their heads. These stood strangely silent and unmoved by the chaos, their heads also cocked to the side, as if listening. They alone understood intrinsically what was happening, and they knew that however bad things might seem at the moment, this was only a prelude.  
  
Things were about to get a hell of a lot worse.  
  
And they thought that was just fine. Just fine, indeed.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith raced through the tunnels as if the fate of the world depended on her speed, everything around her becoming an irrelevant blur. Here, there were vampires at last, but it mattered little; they were just as unimportant as everything else, barely worthy of the time and attention it took to stake them. She scarcely felt their dust as it mixed with the sweat that ran from her pores, grave rotten smell sinking deep into the skin, filling the fine lines of her face with a gritty gray paste and painting her features in monochromatic ash. Like a Celtic warrior she charged, face fierce, painted gray instead of blue, mouth twisted in a snarl of battle rage, weapon held high and proud. When the tunnel ran out, ground extending just beyond the mouth in a small ledge, she had to dig in her heels and slide to a stop to avoid going over the edge. To her left, the ledge curved sharply away and descended toward the lower level, but her attention was fixed straight ahead, stupefied by the scene laid out before her.  
  
Below, in a cavern of enormous size, were gathered literally hundreds of vampires. The walls stretched far beyond the light that surrounded them, rising high and disappearing into darkness, yet they were twisted and packed in a tight knot of limbs, jammed shoulder to shoulder as if there weren't enough space for them all, necks craned upward and back as they chanted, as if trying to get a better view of what lay further beyond. Faith felt terror mingle with battle lust for the first time since she'd begun running, and she had a moment to be grateful that their backs were turned to her, or she would have been sighted immediately.  
  
But only a moment, because then she saw what they were so fixated on.  
  
Tall, wrought iron candelabra's burned with the light of many tallows, hundreds of tiny flames forming a rough oval that ringed the area just beyond the worshippers. A female figure stood alone there in the area that was a wide, shallow depression just beyond the crowd, flickering shadows conspiring to make her appear even more awe inspiring as they played over her body. Her back was also turned to Faith, head thrust back, arms held out high as if in supplication as she lead them all in the chorusing chant.  
  
_Daeonira.  
_  
And just beyond her, there stood a stone dais. The pliant body of a human woman lay face down upon it, body unnaturally still and uncomfortably arranged, her arms dangling over the edges. Unconscious, perhaps dead, Faith couldn't tell.  
  
The chanting rose to a fever pitch that was almost a shriek, and Daeonira's hands moved with gestures that were at once commanding and imploring. Faith tensed, preparing herself to leap—and then the woman's hands splayed out high with authority, one last word uttered like a dying curse.  
  
"Come!"  
  
In the immediate, ensuing silence, Faith was stunned. It was over. Worms turned in the earth, and the earth spun on its axis, and she stood rooted to the spot in disbelief.  
  
_Too late.  
_  
Around her, the entire world began to shake.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
In the clearing, Angel and the others drifted down the hill to the grave marker, as if in a dream.  
  
"What does it mean?" Dawn demanded, her voice shaking.  
  
"I don't know." Angel glanced at her, still looking lost. "If the translation was right, they need Buffy's blood…" He turned in a half circle toward the bottom of the hill again. "Her grave hasn't been touched, the ground is whole… which means they should be performing the ritual right here."  
  
"Maybe Giles read the translation wrong?" Xander queried. "Again?"  
  
"Perhaps…" Giles admitted with some reluctance. "But if that were true, then…"  
  
"They'd still need our blood?" Willow this time.  
  
Giles threw up his hands in frustration. "Technically the Master shouldn't be able to come back at all, according to what we knew before."  
  
"Well… then… that means we should be safe, right?" Willow asked, voice hesitant.  
  
"Relatively speaking, I suppose."  
  
There was a moment of silence, everyone glancing around as if suspicious the words would be contradicted at any second. When nothing happened, they all relaxed, and Giles opened his mouth to suggest they head back to the shop.  
  
That was when the ground rumbled beneath their feet.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
_Around her, the earth trembles and lurches, and she is dimly aware of the danger. She is scared, and her body is still weak and in pain, but the dark confines of her prison are behind her now, and despite the danger, she feels better than her scattered memories can recall. She knows she is held safe now, tucked in the gentle arms of… someone who cares.  
  
"Hold on, Sophia," the voice of her savior whispers urgently. "We're almost there, almost safe."  
  
Sophia. Yes. That is who she is. She remembers now. Remembers everything with vivid clarity. And she knows exactly what is happening.  
  
The sense of safety flees, and with a terrified moan, she turns her head against the man's broad, comforting chest, and holds on for dear life._  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"Slayer—" Spike spoke up, voice urgent as he looked at her, saw her frozen like a deer in headlights beside him.  
  
She turned to look at him with wide, haunted eyes, stumbled and fell against him as the world bucked and shuddered beneath them. He grabbed her by the shoulders, fingers digging deep into her upper arms, stared straight into her eyes. "If you're going to do something, _now_ would be a good time."  
  
The stupid doe-eyed look left her, but he could nearly smell the terror as it poured off her in waves of bitter sweat. Above them, the ceiling cracked open with a thunderous sound, a shower of earth and dust and stone raining down on them. The sound seemed to snap her from her paralysis, and she pulled away from him, turning back toward the congregation below, face pale and determined.  
  
Faith gathered her body like a coiled spring and leapt, hit the ground on both feet two stories below, tucked and rolled to lessen the impact, and came up with twin stakes in her hands. The ground seemed to writhe beneath her, and she struggled to keep her footing, dodging falling rock as she sprinted around the crowd of vampires. Distantly, above the thunderous roar, she heard the sound of exploding dust and knew that Spike had followed behind her, distracting them, engaging them, giving her time to get to the dais.  
  
A vampire turned toward her, leaped awkwardly from the rumbling ground, and she simply dodged, ducking beneath it, never breaking her stride. She passed through the ring of candles, stakes held ready, and heard gasps among the congregation as they sighted her. They surged forward as if to grab her but didn't seem to quite dare break the circle themselves, clawed hands slicing the air just beyond her head. She ignored them. They were irrelevant now. That the ritual had been completed didn't even matter now. Her focus narrowed to one goal, supernatural senses guiding her body almost on autopilot, carrying her through the motions. She had almost reached Daeonira when the woman spun, turning on her with a demonic, fanged grin.  
  
Faith felt the horror of recognition surge through her like lightning, slowing her hand, dulling her instincts, exploding through her body like electric jolts. Her heart lurched once in pained understanding, and then went numb with stupid shock.  
  
Cultured tones that had no business issuing from such a creature rung with familiarity in her ears. "Hello, Faith. I've been waiting for you."  
  
Beatrice.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
The town of Sunnydale had seen a lot of earthquakes in its day. In fact, you could almost consider it an old pro when it came to natural and supernatural disasters of any sort. The ground had roared and rumbled and shook, the plates had coasted over one another and teased the geography, and every now and then, a fissure had even opened somewhere. Always small with respect to the scale of the town. Never anything serious.  
  
But if there was one thing the residents of this city, and perhaps the city itself, had learned in their time, it was this:  
  
There's a first time for everything.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
The Main Street of Sunnydale cracked open like an egg as the first tremors exploded into life, asphalt spraying up and raining down in a deadly geyser. Shops and homes alike slide down the steep incline to the welcoming maw and were swallowed with convulsing, greedy gulps. Glass and wood and steel were crushed, shifting rock within the earth grinding and devouring, reducing them to gritty paste. Water mains tore open, gushing tons of water into the air, filling the hole, making the pavement slick and the ground muddy. The crunching, rushing noises, mixed with the thick tearing sound of pavement, served to diminish the screams of humans who attempted to flee the destruction. Dozens of pale faces, mouths opened in round dark holes, eyes bulging with panic, arms and legs flailing. One by one they all fell to the slick perilous slide, disappearing into the jagged hole, lost to the gnashing teeth of Sunnydale's tectonic plates.  
  
In the old part of town, a yawning mouth opened and devoured half the old city in one, quick bite. As if delighted by its meal, the mouth split wide in a grin, cracks traveling with lightning speed in opposite directions, creeping into the suburban areas of town. All around, buildings shook and shimmied and shattered to the ground.  
  
And so it went, and so it went.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
The ground split down the middle between Angel and most of the others with a rending, tearing sound that nearly deafened them all, shaking with such fury that they lost their footing and tumbled to the ground like rag dolls.  
  
"What's happening?" Dawn screamed.  
  
Angel alone remained on his feet, preternatural reflexes coupled with the instinct to protect the baby on his back, and he reached down and grabbed Dawn, pulling her to her feet and dragging her away from the rapidly widening fissure.  
  
On the other side, Giles was similarly urging everyone away, half running, half crawling away from the gaping hole in the ground. Tara screamed and grabbed for Willow, trying futilely to hold on to something.  
  
The earth cracked again, fissure spreading eagerly through the clearing and into the woods beyond, widening with greed, and the ground tilted crazily away beneath their feet, sending them sliding toward the hole.  
  
Tara screamed again and grabbed for purchase, one hand tearing at the grass for a hold, the other clenching Willow's hand in desperation. She heard Willow scream in return—and then the hand was gone, sliding through hers like sand between her fingers.  
  
Horrified, she turned and looked back—  
  
--and saw her lover tumble away into the gaping maw.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Blue eyes that had always seemed so calm and serene stared at Faith with madness and laughter. _How? How could this **be**?_  
  
"I thought you were dead," she whispered, shocked, betrayed beyond understanding.  
  
"Oh, I am," the woman agreed, fanged maw splitting in a wide grin. "And soon, you will be, too." She lunged at Faith like a cobra, so fast the Slayer could hardly track the movement, dagger extended and eager to taste blood. For a split second Faith stood, still frozen and confused, limbs failing with the depth of her shock—and then survival instinct kicked in and she spun away from the razor sharp knife.  
  
She felt it pass through the flesh of her upper right arm, tearing flesh, tendon and muscle, flaying her open to the bone. Hot warm, wetness rushed from the gaping wound, and Faith screamed in agony.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Willow tumbled through the air for a long, eternal second, fingers clutching at everything and finding nothing—and then she struck ground with a bone-rattling thud, pain flaring like a red supernova through her shoulder joint.  
  
Moaning, she pulled herself up, knowing only that she had to escape the earth before it claimed her completely. She looked up, and her mouth opened in a perfect circle of dismay as she saw where she was.  
  
Above her, the stone grave marker sat split asunder, each half splayed out on either side of the fissure. And if it was directly above her, that meant she was—  
  
She looked down and saw herself sitting atop the dark, dirt stained wood of a coffin.  
  
Buffy's coffin.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith stumbled back, holding her wounded arm, and dodged her former Watcher's next attack, ducking under the woman's arms and rushing past. Once behind Daeonira _(Beatrice?)_, she spun and kicked the woman in the small of her back, sending her flying away. She took a split second to breathe and assess the damage. She still had two legs and an arm left, maybe she could—  
  
Beside and behind her, just next to the stone dais, the ground cracked and split open, black wound opening in a rapidly widening circle that looked anything but natural. Faith stared, thunderstruck, and a bony, taloned hand burst free of the opening, fingers grasping at thin air almost triumphantly. Mocking laughter echoed up from within, and the hand grabbed the edge of the pit, quickly followed by a second.  
  
Eager, maniacal laughter issued from behind her, and she could hear Daeonira exulting. "Yes! Yes! He comes!"  
  
For an instant, Faith was transported back into her vision, and she knew what would happen next. A bald, gleaming head cleared the hole, ears curled against the skull like bat wings, eyes red with madness and death. Soon, those fingers would curl around her throat and gleefully choke the life from her, and she would be powerless to stop it.  
  
_The Master.  
_  
The thought jolted her into action, and she turned toward the dais. Grabbing the girl that lay there, she hoisted the body over her shoulder, then turned and ran for the center of the chamber.  
  
The vampires seemed to have forgotten her, having fallen to their knees at the sight of the Master being birthed from the ground, and she darted through them, struggling to keep her balance as the world pitched and shifted.  
  
There was no time to think about what she was doing. Instinct alone guided her to the stalagmite that rose out of sight into the darkness of the cavern ceiling. Still holding the woman on her shoulder, she spun and kicked out with her foot, landing a solid blow on the rocky projection. She spun too far as the ground shifted again, almost lost her balance, then came around again, kicking it in the exact same spot.  
  
It gave with a satisfying crack, black line appearing across its breadth. Faith paused, preparing to kick it again, and then heard the ceiling begin to rumble ominously. The split in the rock disappeared, became invisible for an instant, and then the weight of the stone above came down full force and crushed the base, upper half crumbling as it fell forward.  
  
She dodged around its path and ran with all her might, stumbling as the rock formation hit the ground and shook as if the world were tearing itself apart. A large chunk of the ceiling broke free and fell as if in slow motion, hit the ground and shattered into a million pieces, crushing vampires like flies beneath its weight. And then the rest of the ceiling began to break apart, chunks of rock falling everywhere all around her. Somehow, Faith managed to keep her feet and sprinted the last bit of distance to the ledge she'd leaped down from, coiled herself and sprung upward.  
  
She barely grabbed the edge of the lip, and she grit her teeth as her nails bent backward, dirt digging up painfully beneath the skin. She felt herself slipping, and cried out with primal rage, forcing herself up with a last surge of strength.  
  
She pulled herself up, exhausted from exertion and blood loss, and kept running, the ceiling caving in like the end of the world behind her.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
The ground began to shift again, moving back toward Willow almost eagerly, as if determined to catch her and crush her.  
  
There was no time to think. She summoned the magic and used every resource within her to push herself up into the air.  
  
She rose above the fissure just as it collided with coffin beneath, its upper edge barely missing her feet. The wood splintered and burst open like a rotten fruit, and she threw herself sideways, using the last of the magic to carry her away.  
  
As she hit the ground, strange thoughts tumbled and collided inside her mind, and she grappled with them, trying to understand.  
  
She was up and running from the deadly maw when it hit her, and she nearly fell down again, knees going weak as she realized the awful truth.  
  
_No. Oh please, no.  
_  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith crawled from the underground entrance, dazed and still bleeding, girl still slung across her back like a sack of flour. She crawled a few more feet from the entrance, heard the tunnel collapse behind her, and then her body gave out completely.  
  
As if now that she'd escaped it had lost interest, the quake ceased, earth settling uneasily back into its normal stillness. She lay there in the grass, panting as she caught her breath, and then slowly rolled over, letting the woman slide gently from her back. She half sat up, and turned the woman over, wondering if she were dead.  
  
Dirty hair matted in tangled snarls covered the woman's face, and she reached out to move it away.  
  
The woman snarled like an animal and jumped to her feet, face contorted with inhuman rage as she slung the mass of hair back.  
  
"Oh my God," Faith breathed.  
  
"You," the woman seethed, towering over her with quivering anger so thick it was palpable. "This is all _your_ fault. Yours and theirs." The woman's stick-like arms crawled over her body as if in disgust. "I can feel you all here, inside me, your voices inside my head. You never shut up." She bleated insane laughter. "You all thought you were so smart. You just did them a favor." The laughter faded and she trembled again in fury.   
  
"Oh my God," Faith whispered again, trying to sit up. "No, please—"  
  
The woman lunged for her, and before the inhumanly strong hands locked around her throat, choking her, Faith saw with a sickened feeling in the pit of her stomach that the woman's wrists were sliced open with thin, bloody wounds. For an instant, her vision recurred, and she pushed it away, struggled to fight, punched the woman with her good arm, but the blow was ignored.  
  
The world began to go black, and Faith flailed weakly, trying to push the woman off to no avail.   
  
"I wanted to die," the woman rasped, vehement. "But I can't even die, because of you. I can't die because _you're_ keeping me alive." Her eyes went wide in sorrow and horror, and tears seemed to tremble on the verge. "I have to kill you all," she whispered, sounding terribly alone and frightened. Then, without warning, without rhyme or reason, the hands were suddenly gone from Faith's throat, and all she could hear was the sound of hurried footsteps running away.  
  
"No." Faith raised a weak hand as she slipped into unconsciousness, the woman's name lingering on her lips in an anguished whisper.  
  
"Buffy…"  
  
And then the world swam away.  
  
  
_


	13. Mortal Ground 2 Chapter 13: Retroactive

CHAPTER 13: RETROACTIVE

  
"I think I'm old and I'm feeling pain"   
You said  
"And it's all running out like it's the end of the world"   
You said   
"And it's so cold it's like the cold if you were dead"   
And then you smiled   
For a second  
  
            ~Plainsong, The Cure  
______________________________________________  
  
Faith staggered along, face buried in Spike's shoulder, only semi-conscious as he half walked, half dragged her along the broken streets of Sunnydale.  
  
Her mind seemed to pulse with waves of hot and cold, scattered images turning and twisting through the empty spaces between, falling in slow motion. Spike had tried to speak to her several times, but the words wouldn't come when she tried to answer. They seemed to originate from a language she didn't understand, their symbols and sounds twisting meaninglessly through the synapses of her brain. From far away, she could hear the sounds of screaming, crying, sirens.  
  
She lifted her head slightly, fog clearing just a bit as they passed a car wedged mostly inside the ground, its trunk sticking up and open like the dorsal fin of some prehistoric, metal creature. From the depths of its tomb echoed the weak strains of music (the Beatles, some still-working part of her brain identified it), adding a touch of much needed surrealism to the whole situation. Everywhere, people were standing around, looking lost, hands twitching helplessly. A few were trying to help others who had been hurt. Some were trying to move debris from what remained of the road, trying to bring some semblance of order to their cozy world that had just been turned upside down and inside out.  
  
Senseless. Pointless. All of it. The depth of her failure hadn't penetrated all the way down into her soul yet, but part of her knew.  
  
This was only the beginning.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Beneath the earth, amidst a tumble of rock, the creature known as Daeonira, the Bringer, She of Many Faces, broke free in a shower of granite and dirt, fists raised to the sky as she roared in rage.  
  
Amazingly, a few candles still guttered around where she stood, their weak light illuminating the scene far more clearly than she would have liked. A dozen or so forms staggered through the wreckage; all that remained of her followers. The dais was smashed to bits beneath a large boulder. And the gaping wound in the ground stood open, vacant, birthing stilled forever just short of glory.  
  
"Slaaaaayer!" she yelled, growling, her voice echoing harshly off the stone all around her.  
  
"Troublesome creatures," agreed a cool, rasping voice from behind her. "Will they never learn their place?" It sighed, condescending, as if exasperated with a tiny toddler.  
  
She spun so quickly that she nearly fell over, jaw that had been tense with rage a moment before now hanging slack and stupefied.  
  
"Why, Daeonira," the voice purred, cool and surprisingly pleased. "You look stunning. Are you doing something different with your hair?"  
  
"Master!" she gasped, her expression contorting into one of violent glee. "You're here! She didn't stop the ritual."  
  
"She could sooner stop the tide," the Master said, casual as he looked himself over, smoothing his jacket. "It _is_ a prophecy, after all."  
  
"I should have known better than to doubt."  
  
He drew himself up and steepled his hands together, a crafty, proud look upon his face as he quoted. "'And the earth shall quake with his awakening, and the skies shall darken and the heavens shall weep blood, raining down ill omens upon the earth. And the divine one shall look upon it all and welcome its coming. And he shall lead them to the glory their promised land.'"  
  
"And I shall be at your side. We will make our enemies writhe in terror and pain before we crush their meaningless human shells. We will reign in perversity and pain and we will drink the blood of humanity until we are intoxicated."  
  
"Yes…" he hissed through his protruding fangs, then paused thoughtfully.  "Of course… there is just… _one_ little problem."  
  
She blinked, not comprehending. "What?"  
  
He put out his hand toward her, and she watched in horror as his open palm struck nothing and stopped, the air seeming to ripple and glow around the outline of his fingers. He yanked his hand back and curled it into a slow fist, features twisting with hatred.  
  
"I'm stuck. _Again_."   
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
The door to the Magic Box flew open before Faith and Spike reached it, and her eyes fluttered open as strong hands came up under her arms, lifting her gently. She felt Spike fall away behind her, and then she was lying against a broad, familiar chest, arms encircling her, supporting her.  
  
"Angel?" She lifted her head and blinked blearily at him, not sure if he was really there or if she was lost in another semi-conscious delusion.  
  
"Shh. It's okay, Faith. We're—"  
  
She began to laugh weakly, and the sound of it crept under Angel's skin.  "No… it's… not okay." She let her head fall against his chest and rolled it helplessly from side to side, still trickling morbid laughter. "Oh it's _so_ not okay. I mean, it's… Buffy." She said it as if were the punch line to some horrible joke.  
  
"What?" he sounded startled, and she thought he might release her in his surprise, but he still held her, still comforted her. "What about Buffy?"  
  
Willow looked away from the distance she'd been staring into, her eyes haunted and filled with grief.  
  
"She's alive."  
  
"What?" Giles asked sharply, rising to his feet in alarm.  
  
Xander also jumped to his feet, looking uncertainly back and forth between the Watcher as he twitched, Willow and Faith. "I see your 'what' and raise you a 'guh?'"  
  
"I saw the coffin," Willow said, her voice flat. "It was empty."  
  
Faith felt Angel tense around her and winced in pain. Then the pain passed and delirium settled back in with delicious languor. "That's right," she slurred. "She's alive… and she's pissed… said… she's gonna kill us all." She trailed off into faint laughter, last shred of sanity fraying. "And… the Master is back… and Daeonira… is Beatrice." She broke into incoherent, gurgling giggles and felt herself sliding down Angel's body as her knees gave way.  
  
This time he _did_ loosen his grip on her, and she kept sliding. She collapsed to the floor, hitting it hard, and paused long enough in her deranged laughter to note, "Damn. That's gonna leave a bruise."  
  
And then everything went blessedly black for a while.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Spike put a hand to his mouth and bit down hard, drawing the taste of stolen hospital blood.  
  
Buffy… alive. It couldn't be. It couldn't. The Slayer was buggered out of her mind with blood loss, that was all. Couldn't be right.  
  
Oh, but it _felt_ right.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Willow went back to looking at nothing, the pieces slowly clicking together in her mind, forming a slow, certain picture, one stroke at a time.  
  
Buffy was alive.   
  
She avoided the thought that wanted to come through with a vengeance that would have done Anya proud. Maybe the vampires had brought her back months ago. The grave had looked untouched when they'd gone there tonight, so maybe…  
  
_"She's pissed… said… she's gonna kill us all."_  
  
Sure. The vampires had resurrected her and she was pissed because her friends hadn't come to save her. That was all. As soon as they found her and explained that they hadn't known, she'd stop being angry and everything would be… would be…  
  
_Fuck._ She buried her face in her hands and let the tears come.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"I don't understand."  
  
In some ways, it was the Xander Harris motto. He was almost used to it after all these years; the confusion, fear and general asinine appearance that came with such lack of understanding. It almost didn't even bother him anymore.  
  
But this was different. This was blind panic; a wild beast thrashing in his chest.  
  
Buffy? Alive? How? Where? When?  
  
Good questions. All questions his mouth twitched to ask. And yet he couldn't make himself form even these simple words…  
  
…because despite his knee-jerk reaction of not understanding, he thought maybe he already knew the answers.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Giles' mind was a temple, sacred and calm, filled with rational, logical thoughts. Nothing entered or left that was not carefully modulated. It was his sanctuary in times of stress, sometimes the only thing that kept him sane.  
  
Buffy was alive… and if that were true, then the problem became 'how', and 'why' and 'what comes next'. These were things he knew how to deal with, things he understood. He knew the process. His mind would go to work eagerly, grinding the equations, seeking answers only, emotions irrelevant and held at bay. This was his work. This was what he did. All his training as a Watcher had prepared him for moments just such as these, and… and…  
  
The structure held a moment longer, then fell apart completely, his composure slipping from him in a show of emotion rarely displayed.  
  
What did such answers matter? She was out there, and she was alone. Had been alive and alone for God knew how long.  
  
And he hadn't been there for her.  
  
He hung his head and turned away, not willing to let the others see him, tears glimmering like diamonds in his eyes.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Sorrow was nothing new to Angel. He and misery had been intimate friends for more than a century now, and there had been many nights that he and regret had stared each other in the eye over a glass of heavy liquor. They were not strangers.  
  
But this… this was new. He'd thought he'd reached the furthest extent of sorrow when Buffy had died. Had thought he'd said his last goodbyes and started to put the pain behind him. But this was pain beyond understanding. Terrible to know that she was gone… but ultimately more horrifying to know that she'd returned, and no one had known. That she'd likely spent all her time at the tender mercies of vampires. That she was so twisted and bent that she would turn to killing those she'd loved most in life.  
  
His beautiful, golden girl… how he'd always wished that she could have stayed young, and bright and innocent forever. There had been a part of him, a small part, that had found some comfort in her death. At least she'd finally been at peace.  
  
The sins of his past were a cross to bear, but one he bore willingly. He'd never blamed anyone else, or tried to share his load. In many ways, that had always been a source of tension between him and Buffy. She'd wanted to help him, and he knew that no one else could, or deserved, to shoulder such a burden. He'd never let her in far enough to see more than the shape of the pain he carried.  
  
He and regret had had many a staring match over that one.  
  
But he'd carried his pain alone over the years, never once with complaint. He had taken everything that she could throw and asked for more, because he could bear it; he _should_ bear it, after everything he'd done. He could stand his own pain almost without flinching, but he could never stand hers. He would have taken it all from her, would take it all now without question, if only he could.   
  
If only he could.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Anya had learned a few things about death since she'd become human. Joyce had been her first lesson in the frailties of the human flesh, Buffy her second. She tried to avoid thinking about it whenever she could, but some lessons were inevitable, and once you learned them, the emotions that went with them also became inevitable.  
  
She had missed Buffy, of course, in the general way that the Slayer had become part of her everyday life, and she'd even been sad about it, in the beginning. That she'd moved on before the others seemed only natural; they'd been human forever, after all. She'd indulged Xander his sorrow and had felt magnanimous for it; the darling, understanding girlfriend, supporting her man.  
  
Now she just felt small and empty.   
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Tara was shocked beyond speech, which was probably good, since no one else was talking, and she didn't like talking when everyone else was quiet.  
  
Buffy. Alive. Oh, Hecate, how long?  
  
She put a hand to her mouth and closed her eyes, unashamed of her tears.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Dawn was simply numb. Nothing penetrated, nothing made sense.  
  
And yet, in her heart, hope beat feeble, newborn wings.  
  
Buffy was _alive_.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith danced along the rim of consciousness, pain simultaneously trying to wake her and making her want to slip back into the dark.  
  
She didn't _want_ to wake up. The world had been a bad place before she'd gone into the enemy's lair, but now it was far, _far_ worse.  
  
Buffy, alive and half insane and who wanted to kill them all because the pain was too much to bear. Beatrice, somehow become the foe she had to defeat. The Master, alive and well again. The apocalypse begun. Half the town trashed. Oh yeah, baby, the party was in full swing.  
  
She couldn't do this. Could _anyone_ do this?  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Buffy stumbled through the wet grass, feet running from ghosts, face running with tears. She didn't understand. Who was she? Where was she? _Why was she? Back there it had all seemed to make sense, when she'd had her hands wrapped around Faith's throat, but now it was all a blur.  
  
Her feet tangled in themselves, and she fell face forward to the ground. She lay there, lungs burning, heart fluttering like a panicked bird in the cage of her chest, face wet with tears and dew. She knew who she was supposed to be, but it wasn't who she was. Her old life was like a dream and this new life was… this was _hell_.  
  
Her wrists throbbed and her blood pounded, growing stronger, healing the damage that had been done. Strangely, she felt better now, stronger than she'd been in all the time they'd kept her imprisoned. Things were still muddled in her head, still blurry, but she could feel them slowly clicking into place as her heartbeat grew steadier.  
  
All she had to do was wait, and maybe this great sorrow, this sense of loss, would pass. Then she would know what to do.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"Faith?" Angel's voice was weak, cracking with a number of emotions. She felt his hand on her shoulder—the shoulder of her uninjured arm, thankfully, or she might have had to give up her ruse of being unconscious and punch him—and let her head roll away with the gentle shake he gave her.  
  
"Faith? Faith, you've got to wake up. We need to know—"  
  
"Um, guys?" Xander asked, his usual sarcastic tone sounding odd as he took a few, slow steps toward the front of the shop. "It's, uh, raining."  
  
"Thank you for the update, Xander," Giles said with rather harsh disdain. "But I think we have much bigger things to concentrate on than the weather conditions."  
  
"Yes. Such as the apocalypse that should be happening right now since the Master's back," Anya supplied, sounding tense but somehow still practical.  
  
"Oh…" Xander said, eyes fixed on the rain outside. "I think it is."  
  
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Xander," Giles burst out, exasperated as he rose and stalked over to where Xander stood. "Haven't you ever seen…" he trailed off, given pause by what he saw. "…the skies rain blood?" he finished weakly.  
  
"Gosh, you know, and just when I think I've seen everything," Xander returned, not sounding happy about the experience at all.  
  
"The portents…" Giles murmured, thinking. "But the Hellmouth doesn't appear to be opening yet. Surely we'd have been overrun by demons by now if it had."  
  
"Maybe the Master's waiting 'til after the season finale of X-Files?"  
  
"Yes, I'm sure that's it," Giles replied, droll. He frowned and went on thinking aloud. "He has to re-cast the spell."  
  
"What spell?" Anya asked.  
  
"The spell to open the Hellmouth."  
  
"I thought his being resurrected would take care of that?" Xander asked.  
  
"When the Master tried to open the Hellmouth long ago, he was interrupted by an earthquake…" he paused thoughtfully. "Much like the one we just experienced. The spell was interrupted, and it trapped him like a cork in a bottle, somewhere in between this world and the Hellmouth. When he was released, the spell was no longer trapped and was able to come to completion, and the Hellmouth began to open."  
  
"So his return this time doesn't mean the Hellmouth will open right away," Xander concluded, tracking the logic.  
  
"No," Giles agreed, as if surprised by the revelation. "But even so, the earthquakes, the rain of blood… His return may only be the beginning, but the apocalypse is already well on its way to becoming reality."  
  
"Then we still have time to stop it," Xander countered forcefully.  
  
"Let us hope." Giles nodded. "We'll have to work quickly, though. There's no telling when he may cast the spell again. It could be happening right now."  
  
"Giles…" Dawn stood up, took a few steps forward, her face drawn and filled with grief. "Buffy… Buffy's out there. We have to find her."  
  
Everyone seemed to break off, though no one had been speaking, and as one, they all looked away from her.  
  
"If… if what Faith said is true, I-I think _she_ will find _us_," Giles said, as if the words caused him physical pain.  
  
"But what if she doesn't?" Dawn demanded. "What if she's lost and alone and she needs us?"  
  
"We'll find her, Dawn," Willow said with quiet determination, rousing herself from her emotional stupor at last. She rose and went to the younger girl, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry."  
  
Faith listened to all of this with a rising feeling of shame. Some hero she was turning out to be, lying here cowardly, pretending to be unconscious.  
  
"Faith?" Angel asked again quietly, the only word he had spoken during the whole exchange.  
  
She sighed and her eyes fluttered open. "Yeah," she said, irritably. "I'm here."  
  
At once, they turned to her, eyes intent and seeking, looking to her for answers. She wanted to shrink from them, hide in the comfort of Angel's arms and not think about _anything_. Why were they all looking at her? She couldn't save them. And then, shamed by her own deprecating thoughts, she looked down and tried to gather herself, reaching deep for what strength and will she had left. God. Is this what Buffy had felt like all the time?  
  
She licked her dry, cracked lips, and struggled to find the words.  
  
Where the hell to start?  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"So…" Giles said slowly, still taking in the breadth and depth of all Faith had told them. "Your Watcher is somehow this Daeonira creature?"  
  
"It makes complete sense." Angel was intent, thoughtful. "What better way to keep tabs on what was going on than insert herself into the Slayer's life?"  
  
"Of course. She'd have complete control of Faith's activities, and complete knowledge. It makes sense," Giles agreed. "But… how?"  
  
The wheels of Faith's mind began to grind, gnawing on the thought and finding it tasty.  
  
"Maybe this Daeonira can switch bodies?" Willow asked.  
  
"Faith." Giles looked at her questioningly. "You said that you found your Watcher decapitated, yes?"  
  
Faith nodded in silent agreement, the wheels of her mind beginning to churn with an intensity that threatened to turn into a raging headache.  
  
"Then it doesn't make sense…" Giles went on, shaking his head.  
  
"That's the only part that doesn't make sense," Faith said slowly, still thinking things through. "Angel… she knew about the books." The pieces of the puzzle began to come together in a frightening picture, and she was pretty sure the gears in her brain were starting to smoke. "More than she was letting on. She knew about you staying in town. And… the brooch!" Her eyes snapped up to his with the realization.  
  
"What brooch?" Giles asked, confused.  
  
Angel ignored him. "She said she found it on the porch… told you it was a gift from me… but she made it, or got hold of it somehow and passed it to you." He shook his head and stared off into the distance in understanding. "She knew what would happen."  
  
"Unlike the rest of us," Xander broke in, irritated.  
  
Faith and Angel both glanced away, uncomfortable. "It was… an enchantment," Angel forced out the words. "To… um… make us… intimate."  
  
"Oh," Giles said weakly, embarrassed, himself.  
  
"But, Angel… your soul!" Willow said, almost fretting.  
  
"Only works with true happiness," Faith said, cynical. "Doing the deed doesn't get it done alone."  
  
"Oh." Willow's voice was small as she looked away.  
  
"She knew I would leave if we…" Angel stumbled over the words, and pressed on. "She wanted me to leave. But why?"  
  
"What happened after Angel left, Faith?" Giles prodded.  
  
"She… got kind of scary. Started talking about shades of gray and right and wrong. And then…" Faith sat up suddenly, realization dawning again. "And then she told me to take some time off, go out, have fun. So I did, and that was the night that Spike came to tell me you about the spell you guys were doing. She knew! She was there when Spike told me! I went to stop you guys, and when I got back…" She slowed, her eyes filling with horrible wonder. "When I got back the vampires were everywhere, and the house was on fire and the scroll was gone. I brought her the scroll after Angel left! She must have known I would!"  
  
"So she waited until you brought it to her, staged her own death and made off with it. Ingenious," Giles murmured.  
  
"Yeah, except, how do you stage a headless death?"  
  
No one had an answer for that one.  
  
"And why wait?" Willow asked, agitated. "Why didn't she just go take it from Angel to begin with?"  
  
"Because she couldn't get into the mansion. Neither could her minions. Because of the spell you and Giles cast on it," Angel answered, grim faced.  
  
"But how did she know about the scroll in the first place? If Angel had it all along…"  
  
"Faith, the vampires were there when we went down to get the scroll," Angel sounded almost excited, or what passed for excitement with him, which meant almost having another expression. "I thought they'd found us and followed by chance, but she must have known. She knew beforehand, somehow, that we'd found its location."  
  
"And then they still didn't get it," Faith said, triumphant. "I kicked serious vampire ass that night."  
  
"That must have been why she used the brooch," Angel concluded.  
  
Faith shook her head, disgusted. "God. She totally played me."  
  
"So, for those of us playing along at home, which is me, let me get this straight," Xander said. "Your vampire Watcher was looking for this scroll, figured out you knew where it was, somehow, tried to stop you from getting it, failed, then knew Angel had it, couldn't get into his house to take it, and figured if she got rid of him you'd have to bring it to her, made you all get it on with some kind of magical brooch, which made things awkward, which made Angel leave, so you brought her the scroll like she planned, and then she staged her death and ran away with the spoon?"  
  
Faith and Angel thought about that for a second, then nodded. "Yeah, pretty much," Faith answered.  
  
"Very intricate," Giles said, voice verging on admiration.  
  
Xander looked baffled. "What'd I just say?"  
  
"I knew something didn't make sense!" Faith exclaimed. "Spike, remember when they found us at Buffy's grave?"  
  
Spike, who'd been silent and contemplative throughout, turned as if he had only just realized there were other people in the room. He swallowed with difficulty and nodded. "Yeah. I remember."  
  
"They _did_ know we'd be there. She sent them after us."  
  
"So the scroll… must have been the ritual to bring the Master back," Xander theorized.  
  
"No," Giles shook his head. "That ritual is contained in a book, remember? We saw it ourselves, when the vampires tried to resurrect him before."  
  
"Then what--?"  
  
"The ritual to bring Buffy back," Angel answered with quiet conviction. "Because they needed her blood for the Master."  
  
"Oh. Oh God," Faith said, the thought hitting her with so much force she thought she might black out. Her stomach twisted up like a snake inside her and she thought she might vomit. "Buffy… tonight, she said that… we thought we were so smart, but we only did their work for them."  
  
Willow and Xander went deathly pale.  
  
"She said… she was alive because of us… that we were keeping her alive, that she could hear us all in her head."  
  
"No," Willow breathed, as if the word itself could stop the feeling that was quickly becoming fact.  
  
Giles froze, glanced side to side at Willow and Xander, seeing the guilt stamped on their features. "Your spell… it worked."  
  
"Oh my God," Tara stood up suddenly, covering her mouth with her hand.  
  
Dawn's eyes narrowed, almost understanding. "What spell?" she asked through gritted teeth.  
  
"We did their work for them," Xander echoed bitterly. "No wonder she picked that night to run off. She didn't even need the scroll. She knew we were going to bring Buffy back and used it like a meal ticket. That's why the vampires showed up."  
  
"No," Willow said again, refusing to believe.  
  
"They chased us off," Spike said, voice thick with irony, the picture becoming clear in his head. "And when we were gone, they dug up the grave and got her out."  
  
"Dear God," Giles breathed, thunderstruck.  
  
"No," Willow said again, desperately, her eyes filling with tears as they darted back and forth between everyone, panicked. "No, it can't be. This can't be—" She broke off and clasped her hands to her face, dissolving into sobs.  
  
"What spell?" Dawn screamed, turning on Willow in rage. "You did this? You brought Buffy back and you didn't. even. tell. me?"  
  
"Oh, God, Dawnie," Willow moaned, pulling her hands from her face, trying to keep from crumbling. "I didn't nuh-know it w-worked. I'm so, so sorry."  
  
Dawn stared at her in outrage and disbelief, and then her hand lashed out, striking Willow across the face with a resounding slap.  
  
Willow recoiled and only sobbed harder.  
  
Dawn trembled with anger, the force of it almost palpable, radiating from her tiny frame in burning waves. Green eyes blazed furious disbelief and resonated with betrayal. "I hope she kills you," she spat through clenched teeth.  
  
Xander sidled up to Dawn smoothly, putting an arm around her shoulders and trying to comfort her. "Dawn, she didn't know. None of us knew." He paused, then went on with guilt. "We _should_ have known, but we thought—"  
  
"Don't. Touch me!" she exploded, twisting away from his embrace. "You were in on it too! You were in on it and no one even told me!" Her face crumpled then, and disintegrated in tears.  
  
Slowly, ever so slowly, Spike unfurled from his stasis. "If it makes you feel any better, Bit, I didn't know, either."  
  
"It doesn't," she spat, resolutely pulling herself together, tears spilling from her eyes with more dignity than he would have expected from a fifteen year old.  
  
He clenched his jaw and nodded, leaving her to the right and composure of her grief.  
  
"So this is all _our_ fault," Anya sniped, exasperated. "I don't like this feeling of being responsible for something so… horrible. We were only trying to help."  
  
"Be that as it may," Giles spoke up, slow and distant, "now is not the time for recrimination and blame. We have a duty, a job to do."  
  
"How can you say that?" Dawn snapped, tears still streaming down her face.  
  
"Because he's right," Faith spoke up, pushing herself from the floor. She flinched as her arm twinged, and gingerly touched the bandages there. "We're gonna make this right," she declared, straining to keep from swaying on her feet. "We're gonna kill the Master _and_ Daeonira, and we're gonna bring Buffy home, safe as houses."  
  
Everyone stopped, looked at her with dawning hope. She could almost feel them beginning to rally, beginning to believe, and that was she needed, what all of them needed, right now.  
  
She gave them a grin made of steel and ghastly resolution.  
  
And then she collapsed to the floor in an unconscious heap.  
  
"Um…" Fox poked his head out from behind the training room door, looking shy and hesitant. "Would now be a good time to tell you that we're leaving?"  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"A thousand years of prophecy, a dozen versions of the ritual, all the time in the world, and _still_ I end up trapped!" The Master rued, slamming a fist into his open palm. "The earthquake is supposed to be _part_ of the apocalypse, not the cause of its intermission." He turned to look at Daeonira and spread his arms wide, an almost comical expression of confusion on his face. "Where is it written that every apocalypse has to be heralded by an earthquake?"  
  
"In every prophecy ever recorded," Daeonira answered.  
  
"Fanfare," he scoffed, waving the idea away.  
  
Daeonira gnashed her teeth and looked away. "We'll find a way to get you free, Master."  
  
He paused in his annoyed pacing, tilted his head to the side and favored her with predatory look that made her shiver. "No matter," he said in a much calmer voice, raising a finger, as if an idea had just struck him. "Much as my… __second imprisonment pains me, my goal doesn't require me to be free."  
  
Daeonira stared, trying to figure out his meaning. "Then… how?"  
  
An eerie grin split his face and she found herself smiling in response to the sheer maliciousness of it.  
  
"Let me tell you a little story…"  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Buffy's eyes snapped open and she realized she'd been dozing. Slowly, she sat up from the ground, staring at her painfully tingling wrists as if she'd never seen them before. They were twisted with bright pink scar tissue, but they were healing. And so too, it seemed, was the fracture in her mind.  
  
She couldn't kill her friends. She knew that now. But she knew why she was here, knew where she wanted to be, and had a pretty good idea of how to make that happen.  
  
Slowly, she began to smile. For the first time since she'd been called back here, she had a sense of purpose, a sense of self. And she knew where she belonged.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Fox shuffled out of the room, Tenth trailing behind with Blackwell in his arms. No sooner than they'd vacated it, Angel helped Giles get Faith into the room and stretched her unconscious form out on the thick mats.  
  
"We should start charging for that room by the hour," Anya grumbled with a glance at the door to the training room. "I could be rich by now."  
  
"Um." Angel said as he returned to the main room and half-heartedly raised his hand. "I'm paying you."  
  
"Oh yes," she said, brightening. "That's right." Then she glared at everyone else. "Why can't the rest of you be so considerate?"  
  
"We owe you one," Tenth offered with a smile, Blackwell still gathered in his arms.  
  
"Actually…" Xander stepped forward. "You owe us several."  
  
"You'll be repaid," the Brazilian man returned with a respectful nod. "Right now we've got to get her back to base, get her medical treatment. For the moment you'll have to settle with what she told us."  
  
"She told you something?"  
  
"About her part in the apocalypse, yes."  
  
"Well? What'd she say?" Anya asked, irritated.  
  
"She said…" Tenth hesitated, looking sheepish now that the moment was upon him. "She said it was her demonic power. Apparently she's shielded, undetectable by magic."  
  
"Like a mystical electromagnetic scrambler," Fox piped up, looking pleased. "That's why Willow had so much trouble pinpointing where she was."  
  
Willow said nothing, only flinched slightly at the mention of her name. Tara touched her shoulder gently, but she didn't look up. Dawn, who sat on the side furthest away from them all, stiff legged and arms folded, kept her gaze studiously elsewhere, acting as if she couldn't even hear them.  
  
Tenth nodded. "We're not really sure why, except that they must have been using the field to hide something…" He stopped, thoughts coming together and colliding as he spoke the words aloud. "No. Some__one," he realized. "The box next to hers was empty, that must have been where they were keeping—"  
  
"Buffy," Spike finished, understanding.  
  
Tenth nodded, seeming dumbstruck.  
  
"So that's how Blackwell was connected to the prophecy," Angel said. "She wasn't the catalyst, but the one who was protecting the catalyst."  
  
"And by protecting you mean hiding, and by catalyst you mean Buffy?" Xander asked, trying to follow.  
  
Angel nodded.  
  
"Huh," Anya said, frowning thoughtfully, and for a moment everyone was silent. Then her brow smoothed and she looked at Tenth. "So when you said 'repaid', I don't suppose you meant with cash, did you?"  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"Faith?" Giles asked gently, coaxing her up from the delirious spiral of her mind.  
  
"Le'me 'lone," she murmured, twisting away from him, head still filled with the cotton.  
  
"I would," he said, almost regretful. "But we need you."  
  
She blinked against the light of the room, then let her eyes slowly come into focus. Recent memories swam into knowing, and she flinched against the heavy weight that settled down on her heart. They were alone; she knew that from the brief glance she'd gotten, from the way that nothing moved around her except for him, his steady breathing, his constant stare. She didn't want to know all these things, didn't want to have to deal with them, but it was just the two of them, alone… and Giles was maybe the only one who'd truly understand. He was a Watcher, after all.  
  
Yeah. Buffy's Watcher.  
  
Did it matter? She didn't think so. She thought Giles probably understood more than anyone the despair she felt right now. Even Buffy, brave and true as she had been, had known fear, had known doubt. Spike had told her that.  
  
"I don't know if I can do this, Giles," she murmured, turning her head away from him.  
  
"Nonsense," he chided, shaking his head. "You've done amazingly well so far. Far better than I'd ever expected."  
  
She turned her head back toward him, squinting against the light, skeptical. "Really?" she asked, half-challenging, half wanting to believe.  
  
"Really," he agreed with a brief nod.   
  
"Leave it to me to beat the odds," she said with a brittle laugh. "You know…" she hesitated, struggling with the words. "I was really worried about that prophecy you found, about standing at the Master's side and all. I thought I might… go over to the dark side, or something." She shook her head. "But it was talking about Buffy, wasn't it?"  
  
Giles bowed his head, somber. "Yes, I believe it was."  
  
She pressed her lips together, said nothing for a moment, then looked away. "She's out of her mind, Giles."  
  
"She'd have to be." He sounded logical and completely grim.  
  
"Alive since the spell I stopped… I can't even—" She broke off, pushed herself up off the mats and shifted her posture, not wanting to dwell on that thought. She couldn't even begin to wrestle with her imagination right now. Just the facts. The facts, she could deal with. Maybe. "She said we're keeping her alive. Any idea how?"  
  
"If I had to guess, based on what Willow told me about the ritual, the spell brought her back with individual pieces of the essences that were offered, and those alone are sustaining her. A small piece of Willow, and Xander, and Tara, and Anya… and, I suspect, even you. Your essences would be like fragmented pieces of a soul inside her. How much of herself, if anything, remains intact is impossible to guess."  
  
She stared at him, contemplating that in terrible silence. "Do you… was it… my fault?" her voice fell to a near whisper, almost breaking on the last words. She cleared her throat and forced herself to speak steadily. "For interrupting the spell?"  
  
Giles shook his head. "There's no way of telling. The spell might have worked if it hadn't been interrupted, or the same thing might have happened. The nature of these spells is somewhat… capricious."  
  
She said nothing for a long moment, taking that in.  
  
"You can't blame yourself, Faith."  
  
She hesitated, gathered herself, and nodded. "Right. No time for that. Gotta fix it, gotta keep moving." She pushed herself up, tried to stand and fell back down. She sighed and gave him a rueful smile. "You know, for such a kick ass warrior, I spend a lot of time on my ass and unconscious. I'm thinking this Slayer thing? Way overrated."  
  
He raised his brows at her and smiled faintly. "Try being the Watcher who gets hit on the head or shot with a crossbow bolt in every other battle."  
  
"Pretty nasty occupational hazards, huh? The Council have workman's comp for this kinda stuff?"  
  
"Oh no," he fairly scoffed. "That would be… useful."  
  
She sat up again tentatively, and gave him a bemused look. "I'm sensing a little bitterness here."  
  
"Perhaps a little," he agreed, shrugging lightly.  
  
She sat thinking for a moment, feeling antsy, ready to move, to do something, felt the fluttering of weakness in her muscles and sighed. "So… now what?"  
  
"Well, now I suppose we have to ascertain the severity of the situation. Find out what the Master's plan is, how the apocalypse will culminate."  
  
"I didn't think these things came in two parters?"  
  
"Normally they don't. But since the, ah, rain of blood, nothing else appears to have happened."  
  
"Well, I did kick the ceiling in on them. Maybe I stopped it, took him out?" She raised her eyes to him, bright and hopeful suddenly.  
  
He considered, then shook his head reluctantly. "It would be fortunate, but it's highly doubtful."  
  
"So… what? We take a team back down there? See what the damage is?" The thought made her recoil. Anything was better than going back down there.  
  
"It seems our only recourse," he agreed.  
  
"Or…" Her eyes lit up as inspiration struck. "We bring the party to us."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"And we shall have hell on earth," the Master finished up the details of his plan with a flourish. He paused, expression shifting as he glanced around the ruined cavern. "But before we do all that, I want to get a chair in here. Set up some of those candelabras and get some fresh candles."  
  
"Of course, Master." She snapped her fingers at several of her remaining minions, bidding them to get moving on that. Bruised, bloodied and half-crushed, they glanced at each other hesitantly, wondering if she might be joking, then took off in a hurry when she raised her eyes to them and glared.   
  
"In the meantime," Daeonira went on, "we'll have to do something to stall the Slayer and her friends. They know you've returned. They'll try to interfere." She balled her hands into fists and shook her head. "I should have killed the girl when I had the chance."  
  
"Perhaps we can use the other?" The Master inquired, glancing up.  
  
"I believe she is lost to us," Daeonira replied. "A pity. She might have proven useful."  
  
"She might yet," he said, sounding coy and cryptic. Intrigued, she looked at him more closely and saw that his eyes were focused on something behind her, over her shoulder.  
  
She turned.  
  
"So, end of the world," Buffy said, dirty, bedraggled and but standing steadily on her feet.   
  
"How do we make that happen?"_


	14. Mortal Ground 2 Chapter 14: Cascade

CHAPTER 14: CASCADE  
  
Welcome my friends to the odyssey bathed in my blood.  
Cash in your credits and banish your demons, and come this way.  
Bookmark your pages and slip through the ages and give yourself to me   
for just a little while.  
  
Welcome my friends, leave your egos and doubts at the door.  
I'll never tell if you drop your defenses and beg for more.  
Suspend your reality high above reason and give yourself to me   
for just a little while.  
  
            ~U.V., 51 Peg  
______________________________________________  
  
There came a flurry of movement from the shadows beyond the area where they all stood. "Mistress! The Slayer!" one of the vampire minions cried belatedly, throwing himself at Buffy, presumably in an attempt to save his mistress' life.  
  
Buffy turned and grinned at him with a smile so wide it seemed almost inhuman. The vampire stopped dead in its tracks, staring at her warily, as if wondering why she didn't run or cringe before its obviously superior strength. "Come on, big boy," she said, almost seductive as she tilted her head, exposing her neck. "You know you want it."  
  
The vampire stared at her, lost in its confusion, and then backed away from her quickly, almost stumbling over its own feet as it retreated.  
  
Buffy sighed with mock despair. "In the end, they all run away from me."  
  
"Strange," the Master commented, squinting at Buffy with obvious scrutiny. "You _sound_ exactly the same." He paused, tilting his head slightly. "But you're not, are you?"  
  
"Oh, believe me. I've been through some changes," she agreed with perilously fragile smile. She folded her arms over her chest and began to stalk around the perimeter of the Master's boundaries, almost as if she could sense where they were.  
  
"Why would you help us?" Daeonira asked, narrowed eyes filled with suspicion.  
  
Buffy stopped pacing and fixed the woman with a gaze that was frighteningly aware for someone who seemed so… unhinged. "Smart as you are and you haven't figured that one out yet? I mean come on, you bled me to bring him back, you know how dead I ought to be." She held out her hideously scarred wrists for Daeonira to see. "But I'm not."  
  
"Of course. The spell your friends performed to bring you back keeps you tethered to your body so long as they all…" She broke off, stunned as the enormity of the implications hit her. "As long as they all live."  
  
"All right. Cookie for the big brain," Buffy said condescendingly, rolling her eyes. "So, the way I figure it, it's either kill them all or end the world." She paused, considered what she'd said for a moment, then shrugged. "Actually, I guess there could be an 'and' in there." She shook off the stray thought. "But I know these people. Intimately, you might say," she said with an odd little smirk. "And I'm thinking, ending the world? Probably a lot easier to accomplish."  
  
"So you _want_ to die?"  
  
For a moment Buffy seemed lost, confused, eyes going distant and far away as she considered. Voices scurried and whispered eagerly along the corridor of her mind, and she shook her head to clear it, frowning. "Where I was… when I was… dead. It was better than this," she said quietly. And then her voice grew stern, rising in volume, stubborn in its determination. "I want to go back."  
  
"And so you shall," the Master said delightedly, almost capering to the edge of his barrier.  
  
"You know we're going to kill them all?" Daeonira asked, matter of fact.  
  
Buffy shrugged one shoulder coldly. "If that's what it takes."  
  
Daeonira shook her head, baffled despite herself. "I don't understand… You sacrificed yourself for these people when you died. Why would you go back on that now?"  
  
"Let's just say I've learned a few things. Buffy's got a brand new bag."  
  
_Buffy's got about half a deck_, Xander's voice whispered in her mind, and she smiled, because that was true, as well.  
  
The Master tilted his head at her even more, a strange smile twisting his lips. It was thoughtful, gentle, and it looked completely out of place on his hideous visage. "Her soul," he hissed. "It's fractured. Shattered. Alien." He paused, considering the entirety of that. "Delicious," he decided.  
  
Daeonira took a step forward, looking Buffy over as if seeing her for the first time. "That's because it isn't all hers. Her friends gave her a piece of each of themselves, and there they all remain, twisted into a patchwork of consciousness."  
  
"And yet, there is something of her in there," the Master said, still thoughtful.  
  
"Yes. It _is_ her body. And they did reclaim at least part of her soul during the ritual. But I suspect the stress of sharing her mind with the consciousness of others, and her seeming desire to return to her afterlife has driven over the edge of sanity. It is an interesting persona… abrasive as it may be," Daeonira added distastefully.  
  
"Hello," Buffy spoke up, raising a hand. "Standing right here."  
  
"What do we do with her?" Daeonira asked, truly perplexed.  
  
The Master clasped his hands behind his back and tilted his chin upward with pride. "We use her, of course."  
  
_All right! End of the world, girlfriend. Let's party! _Faith whispered inside her head. Buffy grinned so wide that the corner of her dry, cracked mouth welled with blood.   
  
"I thought you'd never ask."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
The sun crept over the horizon, illuminating the ruined face of Sunnydale with light far too bright and cheerful for such a scene of devastation.   
  
Some people struggled to make sense of the chaos, others simply packed up whatever possessions remained to them and left town, and still others wandered the streets, seeming dazed and lost.  
  
Tara turned away from the window and shook her head slowly. "I feel like we should be helping them," she said, and Willow shot her a sympathetic glance.  
  
"We have more important things to do," Faith said sternly.   
  
"Yes. Such as sleep, perhaps?" Giles inquired, mildly sarcastic.  
  
Faith cut him a hard look, but it was Xander who spoke up, speaking, perhaps, for all of them.  
  
"I'm thinking sleeping today? Not really an option."  
  
"I can't sleep, knowing she's out there," Dawn said, quiet but resolute.  
  
Giles sighed. "I know. But we need to be certain we're prepared. We can't afford to make any mistakes."  
  
"I think we've already made our share," Xander, self-deprecating.  
  
"Yes, and what about the impending apocalypse?" Anya asked.  
  
"You're right," Faith agreed. "I need to go back down there, find out what's going on. And we need to find Buffy."  
  
"No," Giles declared mildly, and Faith turned on him in disbelief. "Faith, you're terribly wounded, you need to rest. The rest of us are more than capable of going out in a search party during the day time. If she's out there, we'll find her. As for what may be going on below ground…" he hesitated.  
  
"None of you can go down there," Faith snapped. "There's no way. I have to be the one."  
  
"Faith," Giles said more gently. "We've all been taking care of ourselves for a long time now."  
  
"No! Giles, I'm not going to let any of you walk in there and get killed. That's my job!" She hesitated, realizing what she'd said, then backed off her posture a little. "You know what I mean."  
  
"I'll go," Spike spoke up, sounding disgruntled. "I can take the sewers. It'll be easier for me to go alone than have the lot of you tromping around like a herd of elephants. Slip in and slip out. They'll never know I was there."  
  
There was silence as everyone mulled that over for a moment. Then Faith sighed, biting down on her lower lip and finally relenting. "Fine. I'll stay here and… just. Be useless."  
  
"We'll need you tonight, Faith. Until then, rest. We _can handle this."  
  
She ran a hand through her tangled hair and sighed. "I know. I just… I don't think I _can_ sleep."  
  
"Try," Giles prodded gently.  
  
She started to say something more, then the room swam sideways and she stopped, nodding reluctantly. She turned, striding away toward the back room before her tongue could get the better of her.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
She lay on the arrangement of mats, one hand curled under her cheek, and listened as they made their plans and went out into the light of day.  
  
_At least it's daytime_, she thought. It was strange, this need she felt to suddenly do everything on her own. With the danger so clear and present, she found herself wanting to shield them from it. Could that be? Was she actually feeling protective? It seemed ridiculous, but there it was, and there it remained, staring at her like a baleful, lidless eye.  
  
She turned her face into the mats and let her hair fall over her face, closed her eyes and tried to will herself to sleep. Almost instantly, her eyes fluttered open again as her mind picked persistently at the train of thought, and she sighed.  
  
The door to the room creaked open slowly, and suddenly she realized that there was at least one other person who hadn't been included in the day's activities.  
  
"Faith?" Angel asked, hesitant and quiet, as if he didn't want to wake her.  
  
"Yeah," she answered, her voice barely above a whisper, her heart seeming to catch in her throat and hang there.  
  
Her body was turned away from the door, and she listened as he walked across the room toward her, felt the weight of the mats shift as he sat down on the edge of them. For a long moment, he only sat there, saying nothing, and she could see his face in her minds eye, handsome and troubled, eyes dark with thoughts he didn't quite have the heart to express.  
  
There were dozens of things she wanted to say, a thousand things she wanted to do, but each of them fell short of her will. The silence stretched uncomfortably, and she swallowed, glib words rising in her throat. She felt she would say anything to keep him from simply sitting there, his silence like a confirmation of all her fears.  
  
Her lips parted, and she was about to speak, some inane, unimportant quip, no doubt, when his hand fell upon her shoulder, startling the words into silence.  
  
She wondered if he could feel the sudden trembling, like a resonation through her soul.  
  
"I'm okay, Angel," she said softly.  
  
She felt the pressure of his hand hesitate, as if he were debating on drawing it away, and then it settled again with comforting weight.  
  
"No. You're not," he answered, his voice so gentle in the quiet of the room. "But you will be."  
  
"Here's hoping," she said and sighed. Then slowly, she turned her body toward him not letting his hand slip from her, hair falling away from her face as she looked up at him. She blinked, shook her head once, too tired and confused not to ask the question that burned in her mind. "What are you doing here?"  
  
He gazed down at her, face so handsome and fragile all at once, and for a moment, she almost felt bad for asking. Then he smiled faintly.  
  
"I love her," he said simply, and she blinked, surprised by his directness, then nodded. It hadn't ever been a question in her mind. "I would do anything to save her, anything to make it better." He hesitated, and she could see the thoughts swirling in the depths of his eyes.  
  
"I know." Oh, how easy the words were to speak now. Emotion seemed at once so close and so very far away, the extent of her blood loss and injuries making everything surreal. It seemed she viewed her feelings through a window of frosted glass, everything dimmed, dampened, numbed.  
  
He didn't seem to hear her, only shook his head as if he were uncertain.  
  
Uncomfortable in the face of his sudden vulnerability, she retreated slightly and shrugged one shoulder, wincing as the slices the Angaturan demon had made down her side muttered in pain. "Hey Angel, I get it. Really. Everything's five by five." Okay, that was an overstatement. She was still a long way from being anything near okay when it came to her feelings for Angel, but she knew how she was supposed to feel, knew what she was supposed to say. Eventually, she supposed, it might even be true.  
  
"Is it?" His face clouded and didn't seem to be speaking to her so much as goading himself. "Sometimes… I don't think it is. All I ever did was hold Buffy back, kept her from the life she wanted to have." He swallowed heavily. "Sometimes I think I'm doing the same thing to you, just by being here."  
  
"I'm not her," she said, voice sharper than she'd intended it to be. "Angel…" she almost laughed, rolling her eyes up toward the ceiling. "All I've got is being the Slayer. I don't have any family, any friends. I'm not real big with the wanting or planning, either. I'm pretty much a seize the moment kind of gal."  
  
He shook his head again and looked away. "I don't have that option. I have all these… feelings that I can't act on. I had them with Buffy… I have them with you. Even after everything that's happened, even after knowing that Buffy's alive…" He broke off and turned his head away even further, as if he were ashamed, struggling with the words. She could almost see them writhe at the edge of his lips, dancing like demons in the flames of hell. "When you came back tonight, bloody, broken and hurting… all I wanted to do was hold you in my arms and make it right."  
  
Her breath caught in her throat with her heart, and she nearly choked.  
  
"I still love her…" he went on, voice low and laced with the trembling passion he always held onto so tightly. "When I thought she was dead it was easy to romanticize it, to put it in the past, glorify what it was and cherish the memories." He paused again, mouth working to form the words. "But now… she's alive again, and as much as I want to see her face, much as I still love her, there are other people in my heart."  
  
She stared at him, not able to speak.  
  
"I was never allowed to put all my heart into her while we were together. It was the hardest thing I've ever done, holding back my happiness with her. And when we were finally apart and she was still alive, I always thought 'maybe someday'… and then when she died I thought, maybe, that I could finally love her the way I was supposed to. That maybe in death she could finally have what I cheated her of in life." His voice was so intense, so tinged with quiet pain and regret that Faith nearly winced at the sound. "I thought if I could love her like that, I could finally do it right." He slowly shook his head, as if he still couldn't quite comprehend what he was saying. "But I couldn't even do that. I wanted to… but life went on and… things changed." He spread his hands for a moment in a helpless gesture.  
  
"What do you mean 'things changed'?" Faith asked, frowning. What __was he saying? Because if he was saying what she thought he was saying…  
  
"I mean that the minutes turned into hours, and hours into days, and every second she was gone I missed her more than anything. But those hours and days break down into moments, into events and shared experiences, and even though I missed her, even though she was always first in my heart, those moments crept in like time on cat's feet and wedged their way into my heart."  
  
"Okay," she commented airily, still frowning, growing more frustrated as he seemed to dance around the subject. "You wanna ditch the poetry and give it to me straight?"  
  
He sighed, seeming slightly frustrated, himself, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I mean that I care about you, Faith. A lot more than I probably should."  
  
He said it softly, sounding almost depressed by the prospect, and she turned her head, giving a bitter snort. "Wow. Way to sweep a girl off her feet," she said sarcastically. "I mean, God forbid you should forget how to brood for a second."  
  
He stared at her, seeming almost helpless. "What do I have to be happy about?" he asked, eyes intent on hers, so sad and desperate that her heart suddenly lurched in her chest. "I've got nothing, Faith. Less than nothing. I've got people I care for, I've got a _son_ now, but I can't be as close as I want to be, to him or to anyone. The gypsies made sure that the second I got any real happiness it would be gone."   
  
She felt anger rise up uselessly in her chest and grit her teeth, disgusted. It wasn't his fault, but damn. Rage, sadness and more tender feelings all warred for precedence, and then realization washed over her like a bucket of cold, sobering water. Her expression hardened and she shook her head almost disbelievingly, raising an interrogating brow at him. "Why are you suddenly true confessions guy?" She was suspicious now, mistrusting.   
  
He sighed, a gentle, rustling sound that was filled with reluctance. His hands twisted in his lap, long fingers twining round each other in a never-ending dance that could not quite be called fidgeting.  
  
"Why are you telling me this, Angel?" she prompted again, voice growing harsh.  
  
"So you can know how I really feel." He looked down at his hands as if gathering strength from them. "So you can know that I think you're beautiful, and worthy, and stronger than you give yourself credit for. So you can know when I'm not there that I want to protect you, and when I turn away it's because I want to put my arm around you. So you can know the truth and move on." He looked her dead in the eye, making sure she understood the gravity of his next words. "Because no matter what I want, I can't be with you. No matter how I feel, you deserve more than I can ever offer you."  
  
She took a moment to soak all that in, gave a startled laugh and shook her head. "So that's it, huh? Gee, I like you and all, but we can't be together, see ya later." She surged toward him, arms pushing off the mat, eyes flashing angry fire. "Why even bother?"   
  
"I know," he agreed, not flinching from her gaze at all. "It isn't fair."  
  
"Yeah, no happiness allowed, right?"  
  
"Right." He agreed with a brief nod.  
  
"You know what I say?" she burst out abruptly, the words escaping her before she had a chance to think. "I say fuck _that_." She yanked his hand out from under him, pulled him down to her with her other arm, and kissed him.  
  
He stiffened as their lips met, almost pulled away. This wasn't part of the plan; this was _not_ supposed to happen. But the scent of her, the feel of her, his want for her… he felt like he was on fire, his whole body tingling with the touch of hers, nerves straining, yearning with want. He drew a deep, unnecessary breath, breathing in the scent of her sweet, smooth skin, the salty tang of hot blood just beneath. For just an instant, he allowed himself the indulgence of her, letting her surround all his senses, taste, scent, touch, sound. He ran a hand through the silk of her hair, brushed a thumb just below the swell of her lower lip, circled her tongue slowly and thoroughly with his own, glorying in the sensation of the moment.  
  
She shifted her body beneath him and the slight friction was delicious, almost perilous, and he felt himself sliding inexorably down the steep hill toward loss of control.  
  
His lips hesitated against hers, trembling with indecision, and she rose, capturing his lower lip expertly between hers, drawing him in again.  
  
"You know," Angel breathed, suddenly breaking the kiss and drawing away. "This is the part where I start getting into trouble."  
  
"I like my men with some trouble," she said with a grin.  
  
"Not this much trouble," he said, looking at her so sincerely that she felt her heart swell painfully. Damn him for getting to her like this. What the fuck was wrong with her anyway? Had she really lost _that_ much blood?   
  
"I shouldn't have talked to you about this," he said, easing away from her by painful centimeters. "And I shouldn't have…" He glanced away, almost winced. "It's probably only going to make things worse for you." He started to pull away, to rise. "I'm sorry."  
  
She grabbed his hand, pulled him back to her. "No way. You don't get to end it this time. If we're gonna talk about this, let's do it."  
  
"Faith," he shook his head, at a loss. "There's nothing else to say. No matter how much I care, my duty to redemption comes first. It __has to. If it doesn't, my soul goes out the window. And even if it didn't… even if it didn't, I'd still have to make amends for what I've done."  
  
"Yeah," she agreed with a nod, surprised at her own candor. "Me too. But does that mean we can't take whatever we can grab along the way?"  
  
"It does if it means I go soulless again," he said with a simple finality that belied the pain in his eyes.  
  
"Well, duh," she said with a roll of her eyes. "Angel, we could die tomorrow. If we live long enough, if we save the world, then maybe we can sort out all this soap opera crap. But for now, can't we just, you know, live a little?"  
  
He paused, thoughtful, torn. She didn't know what he was thinking, but his strong white teeth tugged at his lower lip, drawing it just barely inside his mouth, and she felt a rush of heat surge through her at the sight. Fuck, but he was sexy as hell when he was tormented. And damn, what kind of twisted crazy ass attraction was this, anyway?  
  
"Faith… I… I can't. It wouldn't be fair to either one of us."  
  
She sighed and shook her head. "You are the original King of Pain, you know that?" Their fingers still lay slightly entwined on the edge of wanting, neither quite willing to draw away. For all his talk, he wanted to be there just as much as she wanted him to be there, and neither of them was willing to admit it.  
  
She bit down on her lower lip, avoided his gaze. "Just… stay here. Just… can you do that?"  
  
He hesitated a moment, as if debating, and her heart sank, anger rising rapidly in its place. She started to let go of his hand, shaking her head, dismissing him. "Look, never mind. I just—"  
  
He hesitated a moment longer, then slid down the length of the mats, slowly, ever so gently, body moving up behind hers, seeming to cup her and hold her of its own accord. He strengthened the grip of his fingers through hers and laid his head against her shoulder, his words a comforting breath as they flowed over her ear.   
  
"No. I can do that."  
  
She froze for a moment, feeling suddenly naked in his embrace. Her mind scrambled to remember the last time anyone had held her this way, and came up blank. Her instincts, like an animal caught in a trap, screamed at her to pull away. But she wouldn't. She couldn't. He felt safe. He felt like… home.  
  
The thought was terrifying, but then fatigue rose up suddenly and won its flagging battle with her at last. Her eyes slipped shut, and in moments she was asleep, the reassuring weight of his body pressed against hers  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"Oh, Angel, I lurve you _soooo_ much," Spike mocked under his breath as he made his way through the tunnels, imagining all too easily the scene between Faith and the master poof in the absence of everyone else. "Bloody stupid gits."  
  
He didn't know why he was bothering to think about it anyway. It wasn't like he cared all that much about her. Besides, where he was going was more important. And the fact that Buffy might be alive out there somewhere…  
  
Buffy… alive. His unbeating heart ached with the mere thought; she was alive… and she was out of her mind. Not that it mattered to him; he'd had a lot of experience with women who were out of their minds. But he found he couldn't lay the miasma of insanity over Buffy's image. She'd always been so… determined. Human, but focused. It was part of what Spike had loved about her.  
  
Still loved about her?  
  
Probably. Buffy had been a realization for him, a turning point in knowing the depth of his heart. And chip be buggered; he knew how he felt. Buffy had been an exception. And yet… he couldn't quite banish Faith's face from memory, couldn't quite cut her annoying visage out of him. There were things about her that made him want to rip her throat out, and yet she excited him. She challenged him. Her fire and ice, her unpredictability, her wild, free way of living, and the nobility that lurked somewhere deep inside, buried far beneath her tough exterior.  
  
She wasn't the completely noble hero who knew her duty. Not the one who knew her destiny and saw vampires only in shades of black and white. Yes, Buffy had trusted him in the end, but she hadn't cared for him. He sensed that this girl could. And even though he didn't want to care, he couldn't quite drive the idea from his mind.  
  
He grunted and shoved the annoying thoughts away, not wanting to dwell on them. He was getting deep into enemy territory now, and he needed to focus.  
  
The caves narrowed around him, and he entered through the same small room they'd entered before, passing by the empty iron cells that gaped like yawning mouths. He made his way carefully through the ensuing tunnels, remembering the vampires that had guarded them before, but they were almost conspicuously empty this time. Soon, he found himself at the lip of the great cavern, and he ducked just inside the cave opening at its edge, peering out cautiously.  
  
He'd come down here prepared for the end of the world, for an army of vampires ready to rally against the upper world, for fire and death, possibly even his own. And yet, nothing prepared him for what he saw.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"So if you're done with the waxing nostalgic," Buffy said with a pointed look at Daeonira, "I think I've got an idea."  
  
"Really?" the woman asked, raising one brow in contemptuous interest.  
  
"Yeah. You're still all super connected to the Council, right?"  
  
Daeonira shrugged. "I know what buttons to push, yes."  
  
"And yet, you still haven't figured out the obvious answer to getting the Super Friends off your back."  
  
The Master inclined his head approvingly toward Buffy, a reaction that did not go unnoticed by the Bringer.  
  
"Pray tell, young one," Daeonira said viciously. "Share your shining wisdom with the rest of us."  
  
"Oh, it's not shining wisdom, really. Just common sense," Buffy shot back with a nasty grin. "I think one well placed phone call would take care of that problem."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Spike hadn't been human in over one hundred and twenty years, but he recognized the queasy feeling in his stomach after only a moment of confusion.  
  
His first urge was to stalk down there like the self-possessed bad-ass he was, snatch Buffy from the arms of evil and deliver her home. It was such an overwhelming feeling that he nearly broke then and there, pushing himself away from the alcove and starting forward. And then the particulars of the scene became completely clear to him. Buffy, sitting upon a jagged piece of debris, so near to the Master that they might have been friends, hunkered down for an afternoon chat on a park bench. Daeonira pacing within mere feet of the Slayer, earning perhaps her contempt, but not inciting the urge to kill that he knew a Slayer would have instinctively felt.  
  
Indecision was something new for Spike. He was mostly a creature of instinct; saw what he wanted and made it happen one way or another, and the consequences be damned. Consequences were for other people less powerful and skilled. But looking down there, he saw Buffy's insidious glee, saw Daeonira and the Master's thousands of years of experience, and knew that only death awaited him below. He could go down there and die… or he could carry what he knew back to the sodding Scoobies and hope that they could come up with some way to save Buffy from herself.  
  
Bugger that.  
  
He pushed away from the alcove and strutted off down the walkway, keeping one eye on everyone with his peripheral vision, so as not to be obvious. After all, he was a vampire, wasn't he? He had every right to be here, and he strode forward like it.  
  
"Well, well," drawled the Master, sighting him first. "What have we here?"  
  
"Spike!" Buffy wriggled down from her seat on the rock, and God help him, he felt his heart jolt in response. She ran to him with a smile so wide he almost didn't recognize it on her face, and didn't stop until she'd thrown her arms around him in an exuberant hug.  
  
"You're here! And here I thought I'd have to have all the fun by myself."  
  
"Couldn't have that, now could we, luv?" he asked almost stoically, eyeing Daeonira and the Master as he spoke, not trusting either of them. And still, for all his resolve, he felt his heart melting inside. Buffy… dear God… just as beautiful as she'd always been, alive and human and pulsing and all around him with her scent and body, and she was _excited_ to see him!  
  
"I know you," Daeonira said, her voice low with warning.  
  
"Then you know better," Spike said with a deliberate arch of his dark brows.  
  
Daeonira sniffed and turned away, as if he were beneath her notice.  
  
Buffy smiled up at him, arms still snaked around his neck in an intimate embrace. "I'm so glad you're here. We were just plotting how to end the world." She paused, thinking about that for a beat. "I mean, I know you're not fond of that and all, but they'll probably keep some humans around to breed and feed on. I know how you love your Happy Meals on legs."  
  
Oh, God, it _was_ her. The shock of it, the truth of it seemed to hit him all at once and squeeze him in its embrace like a vice grip. Even when she'd hugged him—especially then—he hadn't quite believed it completely. He looked down at her, his world narrowing to the touch of her hands, the beat of her heart. "Right."  
  
"You don't seem excited." Buffy extended her lower lip, pouting as she pulled back from him a little.  
  
He stared at her, mesmerized by the jut of her lip. "Well, it is all a little sudden, you being on the side of the big bad and all."  
  
"I know, isn't it exciting?" she asked with a delicious shiver against him. Her eyes locked on his with slow, deliberate knowing. "I know it's what you always wanted, Spike. Me and you on the same side."  
  
"Oh yeah, luv, it's got me all… hot and bothered," he said cautiously, casting another uncertain glance at the others. "But maybe we could celebrate somewhere more… private?"  
  
She grinned so wide he thought it might break his heart, then grabbed his hand and led him away. Neither the Master nor Daeonira said a word, though they watched carefully, the woman's eyes calculating, the Master's bemused and discerning. He got the distinct feeling that they were aware of Buffy's sincerity, aware, too, of how susceptible he was to her. And he could see all too clearly that they could both see the benefits of having a vampire of Spike's reputation and caliber on their side. No, they wouldn't try to stop him. Not unless he opposed them.   
  
Buffy drug him down a few side corridors, chattering all the while. Amazed by her temerity, her seeming good spirits, the bizarre contrast of her perky attitude mixed with her want for destruction, the whole moment seemed surreal to him. He tuned her out without meaning to, trying to get his bearings, trying to _believe_ what was happening to him. That he was here, with her, and she wanted his company.  
  
"I mean, I know the Master's trapped again and all," she went on, snapping Spike from his fugue state. "But we'll figure it out. Plus, he's got this idea that—"  
  
"The Master's trapped?" Spike interrupted, frowning.  
  
"That's what I said. Weren't you paying attention?" Buffy turned toward him with a playful, dark smile, and he nearly shivered at the sight—though with delight or horror, he wasn't sure.   
  
"Faith did it when she caved in the cavern. But we'll figure it out." She stopped, grabbed his hand and pulled it down to her side, forcing him close to her. "And," she grinned up at him, teasingly inching her face up toward his. "None of that matters right now. Because here we are. All evil, and together and alone."  
  
He hesitated, looking down at her with mixed emotions, his desire for her almost overwhelming despite the trepidation. "Buffy…" Good Lord, he could see what she meant to do, and he wanted it, oh yeah, wanted it so bad he was damned near salivating at the prospect, but that wasn't why he had come here. He hadn't come to take advantage of her, or join forces with the bad guys. "Buffy, I didn't—"  
  
Quicker than he could follow, she spun him around and pinned him against the wall, lips suddenly pressed against his, hot, heavy, wanting. Her hips nudged up against his and rotated, teasing him before thrusting hard against him, shoving him into the wall. He moaned into her mouth without meaning to, overwhelmed.  
  
"This _is_ why you wanted me alone, wasn't it Spike?" she asked, voice sly, eyes sparkling.  
  
"Buffy," he breathed, trying to find the will, the words. "Much as I want this, this isn't you. You're not in your right mind. Come back with me, we'll fix it."  
  
"Come back with you?" she asked, her face going blank as she tried to process that. For a frightening moment she reminded him of the Buffybot. "Why would I want to do that?"  
  
"Because it's where you belong, luv. Not here, in this place. This is… this is beneath you."  
  
She frowned, his words seeming to disturb her. "And why would _you_ want that? The way I feel now is good, isn't it? I mean… I _want_ you, Spike. Doesn't it make you hot?" She asked, fluttering almost innocent eyes up at him.  
  
He hesitated—and all was lost.  
  
"See? You don't want to go back," she said with a devilish grin, pressing her hot mouth to his again. His intentions drained away like wet sand through his fingers, and he kissed her back, barely managing to keep himself from ravaging her then and there.  
  
"You want to stay here… with me," she breathed, falling to her knees and beginning to unbuckle his belt. Deft fingers unsnapped his jeans and slid them down his legs, and before he even knew what was happening, her warm mouth engulfed him, driving away all sense of rational thought.  
  
"Oh… God… Buffy…" he moaned, hands dropping to caress her hair, her head, drawing her tighter against him.  
  
He'd barely gotten out the words before she'd shed her own clothing and mounted him, gasping as her heat sheathed him, pinning him against the wall as she rode him.  
  
"This isn't… isn't right…" he breathed.  
  
"Oh, but it feels so right, doesn't it?" she asked breathlessly, teasing as she slid up and down his length. She fluttered her inner muscles, tightening them around him, and his world narrowed to that one moment, that one sensation, and he exploded inside her, crying out into her mouth helplessly.  
  
When it ended, he lay on the ground and she sat astride him, grinning even as she began to move again.  
  
"You're mine, aren't you Spikey? Here you are, and here you'll stay."  
  
He arched up into her body and nodded, mind on fire, all senses screaming yes, yes, yes! This and only this. Buffy, loving him, caressing him, fucking him, forever.  
  
Oh yes.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith woke up alone—but then, she'd expected that on some level. Her eyes snapped open the dim light of evening as the others returned, and she could tell by the sound of their voices that they hadn't found Buffy, low and subdued as they were.  
  
She lay there, languid, savoring the few moments she still had left before she joined them, letting her thoughts drift. She felt considerably better; wounds nearly healed, only itching in that dull way that healing had. Her head still pounded and thrummed with the rhythm of chaos, but she felt like she might actually have a grip on the merry-go-round of insanity. Nothing made sense, and hey, if she couldn't hold on to anything else at least she had that.  
  
She gave a bitter smirk and rolled over.  
  
Angel stood there, leaning back against the vaulting horse, baby Connor cradled in his arms. As she turned, he glanced up and smiled sheepishly.  
  
"I had to feed him," he said quietly, as if that should explain everything; the absence of him at her side, the faint ache in her heart at waking without him—and ache she'd sooner die than admit.  
  
And somehow, it did.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"Okay," Faith said, running a hand through her hair as she tried to orient her thoughts, pacing back and forth before the Scoobies. "We break into teams. Two by two."  
  
"Where is Spike?" Giles asked, glancing around the room.  
  
"He… never came back," Faith replied, suddenly realizing it to be true.  
  
Giles hesitated. "Then we must assume the worst."  
  
"He may have had to pretend to be on their side," Faith said, almost offhand. She almost believed it. It seemed more likely than imagining Spike as dust. "At any rate, we split off, two by two. Angel, you're gonna have to bring the kid, we need everyone in on this. Willow and Anya go together, Angel and Xander, Tara and Dawn, me and Giles. That way everyone has a heavy hitter on their side."  
  
Angel opened his mouth as if about to argue, but Xander beat him to it.  
  
"Why do I get stuck with Dead Boy?"  
  
Faith shot him a look but didn't reply.  
  
"I—I don't know if I'm really a heavy hitter," Tara demurred, as if worried.  
  
"You've got more magic than the rest of us," Faith declared. "Just focus on looking and protecting Dawn. Anything beyond that, you radio us." She tossed Tara one of the walkie talkie's Giles had picked up for them earlier, then proceeded to pass them out to everyone.  
  
"Got it?" she asked with one last raise of her brows.  
  
Everyone nodded.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Giles and Faith strode through the moonlight, Slayer slightly in the lead, Watcher following closely at her side, both holding their weapons poised. They made their way through the first graveyard without speaking, acting in a tandem that was instinctive and old as time.   
  
When they again reached the open expanse of grass, Faith made a face and lowered her crossbow. "Too much to hope they'd be in the usual places. Maybe we ought to swing over by the tomb with the entrance to the tunnels, see what's happening there."  
  
"Of course," Giles agreed with a nod. Then he made an odd expression and tilted his head at her. It took her a moment to place the look on his face, perhaps because she didn't encounter it very often; concern. "Faith… are you all right?"  
  
"Sure," she shrugged with feigned brightness. "Five by five. I mean, why wouldn't I be?"  
  
"A lot has happened, almost too much. Your Watcher… you mourned her," he trailed off looking at her, as if hoping to prompt her into speaking.  
  
"Hey, it's not a thing. I mean, considering my track record, it seems fair."  
  
"There's nothing fair about any of this," he declared, dark and somber.  
  
She lowered her eyes, feigned cheerfulness draining away. "That's not what you were supposed to say."  
  
"Really? What was I supposed to say?"  
  
"I don't know. Something witty and British, probably."  
  
"Well, I have a penchant for not doing what I'm supposed to, you know."  
  
"Really?" she asked, looking at him with a faint grin. "Nah. You?"  
  
"You might be surprised," he replied mildly, and then proceeded to simply look at her until she grew uncomfortable enough to speak.  
  
She shifted and frowned, not enjoying his scrutiny. Folding her arms, she drew herself up with a sulky slant of her shoulders. "I know what you're asking me. You're asking me if I think I can do this. If I can hold it together with the apocalypse and all the craziness happening."  
  
"Am I? And here I thought I was asking you how you felt about your Watcher."  
  
She stared at him in surprise, realizing that he was really waiting for an answer. "Look… it's… I…" she faltered, searching for words she wasn't quite sure how to form. "I cared about her," she finally settled, voice much harsher than she felt. "But she never existed. Or if she did, she doesn't anymore."  
  
"That's right." He nodded carefully. "Whatever she told you Faith, however she made you feel, you can't trust any of it."  
  
"I know that," she said, too sharply, then caught herself. "I just… I thought maybe someone finally really cared, you know? You start thinking like that and you start seeing home." Her voice grew far away and her eyes took on a distant look, as if she were looking back through time. Angel's face flashed through her mind, reminding her of the feeling she'd had when he'd held her last night. And then, quick as a snap the look disappeared as she cut off the thought, replaced with her usual expression of angst-filled boredom. "I should know better by now." She shrugged again.  
  
"Home is where you make it, Faith. You carry it with you."  
  
"If that were true, then this would be my home," she said, cynical.  
  
He didn't comment on that, and it wasn't until later that it struck her that what he didn't say might have been more important than what he had.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"Tell me again why we're doing this?" Xander demanded sarcastically as he stalked through the grass just slightly behind Angel.  
  
"Because Faith told us to," Angel responded, surly and direct as ever.  
  
"Right. Because if we do manage to find some vampire wandering around out here, he's just going throw himself at our feet and start spilling out the Master's plans."  
  
Angel paused, cocked his head to one side. "No, he won't spill his guts willingly. But he'll spill. And we're not going to find him out here," he declared as they arrived at an underground tunnel, beginning to descend into it.  
  
"Oh, great," Xander muttered, rolling his eyes, then followed behind.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Tara tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and smiled awkwardly at Dawn as they walked through the park. "Are you okay?"  
  
Dawn gave her a mirthless look, shoved her hands in her pockets and strutted with pronounced teen angst. "No."  
  
"Sh-she was only trying to do what she thought was best," Tara replied, voice meek and mild, as if she didn't quite believe what she were saying.  
  
"I don't want to talk about it," Dawn said abruptly, raising her chin.  
  
Tara nodded and looked down at the ground, continuing to plod through the damp grass.  
  
They walked in silence for a few minutes longer, and finally Dawn dropped her posture, shoulders sloping, head drooping, eyes blinking thoughtfully, seeming almost sleepy. "Do you… do you think she's out here?"  
  
"Buffy?" Tara asked hesitantly. Dawn nodded and she glanced about, uncertain. "Well, if she is, we'll find her." She smoothed her hair back with both hands and looked at Dawn semi-anxiously. "We'll get her back."  
  
Dawn made a derisive sound and turned away. "I'm not a little kid," she said vehemently. "You don't have to humor me."  
  
"Dawn…" Tara stepped up to her, slipped her hand into the younger girl's. "I'm not."  
  
Dawn stood rigid for a moment, resisting, then slowly leaned her head in against Tara's shoulder. "I just…"  
  
_Miss her, need her, want her back_, Tara's mind filled in helpfully, and she nodded. "I know."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Willow plodded along in a daze that felt more like a nightmare than daydream, guilt consuming her so utterly and completely that she felt as if a giant hand had locked around her heart and begun to squeeze. In the background, Anya nattered on about the inconvenience all this searching was causing her, complaining bitterly about having to close the shop all day and then go out again all night with no sleep. Willow bristled at the ex-demon's words, wanted to make a nasty retort about how important this was, but she couldn't quite muster the will to say anything.  
  
In her secret heart of hearts, she hoped fervently that they wouldn't be the ones to find Buffy. Knowing that she was the one responsible for this… Magic had wrought this, _her magic_, she thought with blackened self-condemnation. Her fault. The weight of it weighed so heavy on her soul that it seemed she could barely move her feet.  
  
And yet… there was the voice at the back of her mind that whispered to her, insisting that if magic had made this, then magic could fix it. She willed the voice away, locked it up tight and barred the door, but she could still hear the insinuations whispering around the cracks of its edges. And she worried.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Spike came back to himself sometime later, Buffy dozing lazily at his side, and he turned instinctively, covering her with one of his arms. In her sleep, she smiled and snuggled against him, and he found himself again without rhyme or reason, unable to understand what had happened or how he had come to be here.  
  
And did it matter? He had her. At long last, he'd laid claim to her heart, which was all he'd ever wanted. She needed, and she'd turned to him for her needs. She was using him for shelter, for familiarity, almost certainly, but she was his. She _wanted_ him.   
  
He propped himself up on one elbow and gazed down at her. How could he ever want more than this?  
  
And yet… he did.  
  
Somewhere out there, Faith and the others undoubtedly worried for him and Buffy both, wondering at their fate. But why should he care about their stupid, petty human concerns?  
  
He shouldn't.  
  
And yet… he did.  
  
  
_


	15. Mortal Ground 2 Chapter 15: Interventio...

CHAPTER 15: INTERVENTION  
  
She stripped to the beat but her clothes stay on  
White light everywhere but you can't see a thing  
Such a squeeze  
A mad sad moment  
Glory to you  
Take me there  
  
Got some revelation  
Put into your hands  
Save you from your misery like rain across the land  
Don't you see the color of deception  
Turning your world around again?  
  
            ~Suicide Blonde, INXS  
______________________________________________  
  
  
"Slayer," the vampire breathed in a low, ominous hiss, fetid breath like the stench of an unearthed grave, meaty and rotten. Its pale pink tongue played over sharp incisors, and the look on its face almost blissful, as if it were already imagining what her blood would taste like. The creature tensed, muscles coiling with unnatural predatory strength, and then threw itself at her, mouth wide open in a slavering grin that promised death and far more insidious fates.  
  
It landed gracelessly on its face with a pain-filled grunt, the ropes that tied it to the chair drawing it up short and depositing it on the floor, chair flopping around on its back like some sadist's idea of a dinosaur sail-fin. The vampire lifted its face, nose bloodied and pride sore, and tried to crawl the last few feet to the Slayer. The baleful glare of its yellow eyes was so brilliant that it could have fried the Scoobies and company where they stood.   
  
"You done with the drama queen thing?" Faith asked with a cool raise of her brows.  
  
The creature snarled and lurched toward her again, chair tangling up in its movement, causing it spill over on its side. Its limbs waved like a helpless turtle's for an instant as it struggled to right itself.  
  
"Guess not," she assessed with a dark grin.  
  
"Naughty, naughty," Angel said, swooping in and scooping up the chair, setting it upright. The vampire tried to snarl, face lunging forward at Angel, and the corner of the souled vampire's mouth curled up in a hard smile.  
  
Looking at that tiny smile on Angel's face made Faith shiver and feel exceedingly warm at the same time. She glanced away, focused her thoughts, and hardened her expression again as she stepped closer to the vampire.  
  
"I'll never tell you anything, Slayer," the creature spat, all pride and fury within its bonds, and this time it was Faith's turn to smile. She wouldn't have been surprised by how similar the expression was to Angel's a moment before.  
  
"You know, if I had a nickel for every time a vampire's said that…"  
  
"What?" the vampire challenged in a voice that tried desperately to mock. "You gonna torture me? Doesn't that go against your 'good guy' code?"  
  
The younger Scoobies shifted restlessly, and Faith spared them a sideways glance, then shrugged. "Theirs maybe. Not mine." Her dark grin widened and she took a step closer to the creature, coming almost within range of its grasp—if it could have grasped. She pressed her fists together and began to crack her knuckles, tilting her head toward the others. "Maybe you guys had better leave us alone."  
  
The vampire's smile faded, a panicked look entering its feral eyes.  
  
"Of course," Giles answered smoothly, not missing a beat. "Would you like us to bring in the communion wafers and holy water, or will hot pokers suffice?"  
  
The vampire seemed to shrink within its bindings, form growing shriveled and pale. Its eyes flickered amongst them nervously now, not quite believing them, not quite daring not to.  
  
"I was thinking more like ink," Faith said brightly. "We still have that tattoo gun around here don't we?" She looked at the vampire with an almost eager curiosity. "I always wondered what would happen if you tattooed crosses all over a blood-sucker."  
  
The vampire paled—a feat Faith wouldn't have imagined possible, considering its pasty complexion.  
  
"I figure it won't even kill him," she went on, seeming intrigued by the possibility.  
  
"Okay," it mumbled, voice low and defeated. "What do you want to know?"  
  
"I knew you'd see it my way," she said with mock-companionship, clapping the creature too hard on the shoulder. "We don't want much. Just wanna know what your sleazebag mistress and the Master are up to down there."  
  
The creature glowered in silence.  
  
"Why hasn't the Master ended the world yet?" she demanded more forcefully, eyes darkening and flashing fire, all pretense of friendship gone from her voice.  
  
"He… can't," the vampire admitted reluctantly after a moment. "When the—when you brought the ceiling down it interrupted the ritual. The Master is trapped… again," it finished lamely, lowering its head as if in shame.  
  
Laughter bubbled up from Faith's chest in black, hearty bursts. "You're kidding. Not even a guy as cheesy as the Master could be that lame."  
  
The vampire glared at her balefully.  
  
She stared in surprise for a moment, then threw back her head and laughed, shaking it all the while. "_No way!"  
  
Giles ducked his head to hide his smile, and the other Scoobies seemed just as amused. Only Angel stood, face devoid of emotion and placid as ever, eyes and ears attentive to every detail.  
  
"So… we're safe then?" Willow asked, hardly daring to believe it. "I mean, if he can't get free, what can he do?"  
  
"Well, he could scream and flail his arms around a lot," Xander put in solemnly, dark humor lacing his tone.  
  
"Yes. That would be _quite_ scary," Anya added with dry sarcasm.  
  
The vampire lurched forward in its chair, wooden legs scraping across the floor as it strained to reach them in its outrage. "He will make meat puppets of you! Drink your blood and leave your bodies for the dogs!"  
  
"Yeah?" Xander asked with a lop-sided smile. "He's gonna do all that from his little 'boy in the bubble' special place?"  
  
"When his time comes, human, you will wish you had not mocked him," the vampire seethed. "He does not need to be free to conquer this world or defeat the likes of you. When his hands fall upon the—" the creature broke off, blinking stupidly, as if it realized suddenly that it had said too much.  
  
"When his hands fall upon the what?" Faith asked, her voice sharpening into steel, eyes narrowing as she invaded the vampire's personal space.  
  
"Oh, ah…" the vampire's eyes went comically wide. "Nothing." It shrugged. "I don't know what I was saying," it went on with a shaky laugh. "Must be blood loss. I'm giddy," it decided with a bright nod.  
  
Casually, Faith pulled the cross from her neck and let it dangle before the vampires face, silver surface gleaming within centimeters of its unholy flesh. ""When he gets his hands on the __what?"  
  
The vampire watched the cross swing back and forth in front of its eyes as if it were being hypnotized. "I… ah…"  
  
"On. The. What?" Faith asked, the cross dipping closer to the vampire's skin.  
  
The vampire sighed and rolled its eyes, leaning back in its bonds. "All right."  
  
Everyone in the room ceased to breathe, and each leaned forward in anticipation of what the creature was about to say. Faith tightened her fist around the chain of the necklace, lips pressing together in a thin line. Giles grew somber, put his hands in his pockets, and took a slow step toward the creature. The tension in the room was almost palpable.   
  
The vampire licked its lips slowly, then spoke. "When his hands fall upon the—"  
  
The door to the room burst open with a terrible clatter and the vampire broke off, staring down at its chest in disbelief. For a split second, Faith and the others stared with the creature, saw the wooden stake protruding from its breast, and then it was dust.  
  
The ropes collapsed and fell to the floor, and as one, everyone in the room spun, falling back into fighting positions.  
  
Three men stood in the doorway, each dressed in form-fitting black clothing, and behind them, in the outer room, stood at least five more.  
  
One man in the front rose from his stance, relaxing the grip on his crossbow. A thin smile played about his ratty features as he surveyed the group, and he rubbed one hand over his cheek, as if suppressing laughter at some sort of joke he alone understood. He leaned back on one leg and nodded solemnly to them all, hand cupping his chin.  
  
But he spoke to one alone.  
  
"Hello, Faith."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Dru's cold fingers ran down the length of Spike's cheek, the touch of furtive spiders and thin silk, drawing a sigh from his breast. He reached up, pressed his hand against hers, thick graceful fingers over thin, and turned his cheek into her caress. This was good. This was right. He was the night, and she was the goddess of the moon, lunatic and luminous, the light by which his world was illuminated.  
  
"Spike," she said with her lovely, thick accent, fingertips twitching against the smoothness of his skin, and his eyes flickered open.   
  
He gazed upon night-blackened trees, their branches thick and twisted, weaving a barrier between the earth and sky. Strange, red fruit hung in overripe bunches, seeming to drip from the limbs, and from all around came the faint, thin sound of trees sighing and scraping against one another in the wind. There was an almost ominous quality to the sound, one that warned that these trees were hungry, that they longed for flesh between their long, bony fingers of bark, for blood soaking the ground and feeding their roots.  
  
"Do you hear?" Dru asked, her eyes wide and wild as they stared at him.  
  
"The trees? Don't worry luv, they can't reach us here."  
  
She shook her head almost imperceptibly and her eyes fell away from him, rolling upward, beautiful face creasing with a frown. "The stars are weeping."  
  
"Why are they crying, luv?" he asked, tilting his head at her.  
  
She reached up with her other hand, grasping at the air as if she could pluck the stars only she could see from their heavenly place. "There are too many of them, and they've forgotten their names." She paused and titled her head, raven hair falling over her huge, dark eyes, and looked at him in that distant way that he knew meant she was seeing something else entirely. "She puts out their little lights, and gives no regard to her ruby slippers."  
  
"Who, Dru? Who puts them out?"  
  
She rose and moved from him, a filmy white ghost dressed in even paler gauze, drifting across the night with her arms upraised. The canopy of trees groaned and seemed to shriek as the branches were ripped violently apart, showering Spike in leaves and warm sap that smelled like… blood. The ragged hole peered into the night, revealing a moon that lay huge and bloated against the sky in an obscene mockery of pale beauty, and all around it the stars flashed and burned and fell from the sky.  
  
"It's beautiful." Dru said, spinning around once under the pale light, arm still upraised. She closed her eyes and smiled, throwing back her head, and Spike tore his eyes from her to look at what she meant.  
  
The fruit on the tree branches overhead hung distended, bright red surface grotesquely swollen. As Spike watched, the alien fruits swelled even larger and one finally popped in an explosion of pulpy gore. A human form stretched out from inside the red skin, from tiny fetal form to full grown human in seconds, and it opened its mouth in a shriek, arms flailing as it hung upside from the tree by its feet. All around him more fruit began to burst open, humans birthed from scarlet skin, all of them shrieking and screaming. They twisted and writhed on their branches as Spike watched in mute shock, and blood began to flow from their eyes, their mouths, their noses, everywhere until it poured from them in a steady stream. Rivulets of crimson sprayed and struck the ground, saturating it, soaking it, and the trees shuddered in ecstasy as they tasted of it.  
  
"They sing such a pretty song," Dru proclaimed in a childlike voice, still spinning. She was streaked in blood, covered with it. He could even see blood on the dull gleam of her sharp teeth as she grinned and licked her lips with sensual vigor. She rose up on her toes like a ballerina, flexed once, then began to dance among the madness, singing with a young girl's lilt—and yet her voice was as queerly flat and expressionless as her eyes.  
  
"Ring… around the rosy… pocket full of…" she trailed off, slowly coming to a halt in her dance, and looked at Spike. "I haven't enough posies for them all," she said, and pouted.  
  
Then, still humming the children's song brokenly, she turned and began to spin faster, and faster.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith had a moment to register the man, his manner of dress, his abrupt actions—and then Angel stepped in front of her, solidifying the vague recognition she felt.  
  
"You don't belong here," he said, matter-of-fact, the words themselves a deadly threat.  
  
"On the contrary," the rat-faced man said with a good natured humor that didn't reach beneath his skin. "We," he spread his arms to encompass himself and all his fellows, "belong precisely here."  
  
"Donner," Giles said, his voice thick with disgust as he named the man.  
  
"Good to see you, too, Rupert," the man returned with a brief nod.  
  
"Why are you here?" Giles bit off sharply.  
  
"Giles?" Willow asked with an uncertain sideways glance.  
  
Giles made a staying gesture with one hand, barely even noticeable to anyone not paying attention, but Faith saw it, and wondered if the man had any idea how much Giles had just saved his snotty little British hide. Impatiently, she pushed past Angel and walked up to the man, fighting against the erratic beat of her heart. She knew who they were now, figured she knew why they were here, too, but be damned if she was going to roll over and show them her belly.  
  
"I think Giles asked you a question," she said, planting her feet wide apart and crossing her arms over her chest.  
  
"Oh, the Slayer's found her voice, has she?" Donner smiled condescendingly.  
  
"Slayer's gonna find a whole lot more than that if you don't come up with an answer in a couple of seconds," she returned with a sweet smile that was fake as a three dollar bill.  
  
Donner chuckled as if amused, seeming not in the least concerned. "The face changes, but seldom the attitude."  
  
"You ever think maybe there's a reason for that?" Angel asked, voice quiet and still threatening.  
  
Donner appeared to ignore the tall vampire, pulling at the sleeve of one of his gloves, drawing the leather fingers close against skin. "Breeding. Training. Lack thereof," he said with a disdainful shrug.  
  
"Still not answering the question," Faith broke in, voice rising dangerously.  
  
With an effort, it seemed, Donner focused his attention on the Slayer, dark brows rising with mild interest. "Like a dog with a bone," he nodded to himself, as if he expected nothing less or more. "Very well. We're here to talk to you, Faith."  
  
"What? Picking up a telephone was too easy?" she challenged. "Last time I saw guys dressed like you they were trying to kill me."  
  
He nodded, not in the least offended. "Yes. But things were different then, weren't they?"  
  
She frowned, caught off guard. She'd expected him to protest, to try and smooth things over, or deny the reason he was there.  
  
"You were the rogue Slayer, then, weren't you Faith?"  
  
"Do you have a point?"  
  
"Of course," he replied mildly. "One doesn't travel several hundred miles without a point, do they?"  
  
Her shoulders slanted insolently and she drew herself up, matching the man's dispassionate stare. "Think you're gonna get to it anytime soon?"  
  
A sarcastic smile graced his thin, cold lips. "The last time the Council's Black Ops came here, we were hunting you. Now, you are the one we turn to in our time of crisis."  
  
Faith almost flinched, so great was her surprise. Even with a force of effort her face still twitched and she felt herself recoil internally from the man's words. "What crisis?" she demanded, suspicious.  
  
"The new rogue Slayer," he said slowly, simply, and her blood turned to ice in her veins.  
  
"Buffy has to die." Donner paused, licked his lips as if he were enjoying this immensely, and added, "Again."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *             
  
Dru held out her arms and spun like a tornado, milk white against the velvet backdrop of night. A flash of her face, her delicate hand, her witching smile, all blurring into the whole of devastation, a force of nature that Spike could never hope to stand against. Blood sprayed up in a continuous fine mist as she turned like a dervish, and the humans lay slack among the tree branches, their dead faces already beginning to rot.  
  
"Dru." He reached out desperately to stay her. "Don't, luv."  
  
And even as he said it, the ebony sheet of night pulled away from the sky, ripping the burning stars and the heavens with it. And within the tornado of her beautiful fury, her face caught and held still, while her body still spun.  
  
"Dust, all dust." She laughed, dark blood spilling out over white teeth. "Ashes, ashes, we all fall down."  
  
"Dru, stop!" He lunged to his feet, moving for the first time, only knowing that he had to stop her. He sloshed through the blood that covered the ground, and saw that it was already beginning to congeal. It clung to him in ragged, red clumps. He reached out to touch her with hands that were bloodstained, and he realized for the first time that he was just as covered in it as she was. He paused, transfixed by the site of it. Then he drew his hand back toward himself, licking the liquid from it with relish. This blood was free; he could drink it.  
  
He smiled sly and cunning down at Dru, who had stopped spinning as he cleaned his fingers.  
  
"Yes, love," she whispered. "Strength rides in her chariot, but the High Priestess has found her dog."   
  
She wrapped her icy arms around him, and he felt her begin to change and shift beneath her dress, her maniacal laughter filling all his senses.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Giles stepped forward as if the force of his anger alone were enough defense against the weapons the men in black carried. "The bloody __hell you say," he spat, blazing righteous anger.  
  
Faith still stood frozen, her heart seeming to cease its beating, her breath caught painfully in her throat. Thoughts twisted and tumbled through her mind like letters on a Scrabble board, Donner's words grasped by some sort of instinctive intuition, but their meaning not given form, not yet able to be realized.  
  
"No," Willow echoed, her voice high and hard, her step toward the men following just behind Giles'.  
  
"Really?" Donner inquired, almost polite as he tilted his head at the witch, seeming to scrutinize her with his gaze. Willow took a deep breath and steeled herself, feeling dirty beneath the candid eyes that roamed over her. "The way I hear it, this is all your fault."  
  
Willow paled, triangles of bright red color appearing high on her cheeks. Her fingers flexed and closed into fists, and fire flashed like lightning in eyes which had turned suddenly dark as the sky before a storm.  
  
"Th-that's not fair!" Tara burst out, taking a half-hearted step forward. "We… we all…" she trailed off, growing confused, cowed under the man's stern, condescending gaze.  
  
"We all did it," Xander said firmly, stepping forward as well. "If you want to blame someone, blame us all."  
  
"Such nobility," Donner proclaimed with a roll of his eyes, affecting the manner of a man bored to tears.  
  
"You wouldn't know nobility if it pierced your heart with a crossbow bolt," Giles snorted.  
  
"Nevertheless, the rogue Slayer must die. You know she didn't come back right, don't you?" he asked, piercing dark eyes falling on each of them in turn. "To leave her like this would not only be an affront to her soul, but imagine the damage she could do if she decided to turn against you. She's simply too dangerous to let run about in her current state."  
  
"We can fix her," Willow said determinedly. "We can make her right again. I know it."  
  
Donner smirked, arching a brow at her. "Really? How? If you have a plan, by all means, let's hear it." He made a grand show of folding his arms over his chest and leaning back, giving the witch his most rapt attention.  
  
Willow held his eyes a moment more then glanced away, face burning with humiliation and indignation.  
  
"More magic, perhaps?" he mocked. "The Slayer should never have been resurrected in the first place. But since she has been, it is our duty, and __your duty, Faith, to see that the situation is put right."  
  
And still Faith reeled. Images flashed through her mind. She and Buffy fighting side by side, hand and fist and heart. Buffy shoving Faith's own knife through her guts after she'd tried to kill Angel. Buffy, hazy, kissing her on the forehead with gentle care as she lay in a coma. Buffy punching Angel as he tried to defend Faith. Buffy helping her escape the Council's hands despite it all.  
  
She snapped back into the moment, mouth curling into a derisive snarl. "No." She replied, softly, succinctly.  
  
"No?" Donner inquired politely, as if he were a matre'de and she'd only turned down the order of the day.  
  
"No," she said again, her voice gaining strength and confidence as she blazed the sincerity of her answer.   
  
"So you refuse to answer the call of your sacred duty in this matter?" he asked, as if to make the matter completely clear.  
  
"It's not my duty to kill humans."  
  
"It is when they are the Slayer."  
  
"Buffy didn't desert me when you tried to hunt me down, even when she believed I deserved to die. And I'm not gonna desert her."  
  
"Hmph," Donner grunted, and made a peculiar clucking sound.  
  
"So, now what?" she countered, hands sliding down to her hips as she stood tall, shoulders slanted in a questioning, insolent posture.  
  
"Honestly?" Donner asked, unperturbed, favoring her with a chilling smile. "That's exactly what we thought you'd say." He gave Giles and the others an almost mocking glance of admiration. "It seems nobility catches like a disease."  
  
"Right," she replied, not really understanding, and not really caring to. "So don't let the door hit you on the way out."  
  
"Oh, we're not leaving," he returned mildly.  
  
"No?" she asked with a threatening raise of her brows, posture immediately going offensive.  
  
"No," Donner answered, his voice almost trembling, as if with laughter. "You see, Faith, we wouldn't have come here at all if we honestly thought we could convince you to do the job. But we did have to go through the formality of asking. Council procedure." He spread his arms wide in a gesture that was more mocking than vulnerable. "It was worth a try."  
  
"Then why are you here?" she asked sharply, eyes narrowing dangerously.  
  
"Why," Donner said with a brilliant smile that bordered on sincere, "to do the job ourselves, of course."  
  
"Thanks for making it so easy," he added with a nasty wink.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"Spike," a dark voice with honeyed overtones whispered over his ear. Delicious, warm breath over his skin, exquisite weight pressed against his body. "Come on, lover. Wake up."  
  
His eyes fluttered open and Buffy's dark smile beamed down at him. "I thought you'd never come out of it."  
  
Ah, he was still dreaming, of course.  
  
Buffy leaned down, caught his lower lip between her teeth then rose up, still grinning darkly. "Come on, Spike. Rise and shine. We've got work to do."  
  
With an effort, Spike shook off the remnants of his dream, willing himself to focus on the beauty of her face. Maybe if he could just… focus on her for a second, this nagging sense of wrongness would leave him. This nagging sense of wrongness that pissed him off on a level so deep he didn't have enough stairs to reach it. This was beauty, glory. He and Buffy, together at last, against the world. It was right like the stars in the heavens, the moon in the sky. He frowned, the thought reminding him of his dream—a dream that should have been the sweetest of wine to a vampire, and yet the taste it left in his mouth was bitter, sour, rank. Like the blood he had licked from his hand.  
  
"What is it?" she asked, seeing the look upon his face. Beneath the coolness of her gaze he became completely aware that he was no longer dreaming.  
  
"Buffy," he uttered the word almost gutturally, stroking his fingers through her gorgeous blond hair.  
  
"That's my name," she quipped with a smile so bright it made his heart ache with remembering the vibrant, glowing girl he'd loved. This girl… she was like quicksilver through his heart, at once the woman he'd loved, the girl he'd known, and a new, fearsome creature that made even his dark heart quiver.   
  
She trailed languid nails down his neck, a contented smile curving her lips, and in that instant, he knew nothing beyond the feel of her, the want of her, the love of her. To see her like this, to feel her like this—it was more than he'd ever dreamed.  
  
"The Master needs us," she went on, still smiling.  
  
"The Master can bloody sod himself," he replied, leaning up to kiss her.  
  
She drew back with a coy smile, turning her head slightly away so that her eyes slanted down at him with sinful sweetness. "We've got an apocalypse to finish, you know."  
  
"Oh, that," he murmured, still leaning into her, breathing in the sweet, warm scent of her skin. Strange how human skin always smelled and tasted sweet.   
  
"Yes, that," she answered with a teasing kiss.  
  
"Right then," he said with some authority, then covered her mouth with his, pulling her tight against his body. "We'll get right on that," he murmured into her lips.  
  
"Promise?" she breathed into him, rocking her hips against his.  
  
"Promise," he answered, gripping her hair and drawing her deeper into the kiss.  
  
_The stars_, Dru whispered in his mind.  
  
_Shut up, Dru_, he bade her phantom, and she disappeared obediently into the mist as Buffy sheathed him with heat beyond a thousand suns.  
  
Agony became ecstasy.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"I won't let you do this," Faith raged, black anger radiating from her palpable waves. Her fingers clenched into fists, hands held tight at her sides, as if it took every molecule of self-control she possessed to keep from lashing out.  
  
"Nor I," Giles added, stepping up close beside the Slayer. __His Slayer. For truly she was becoming his as surely as Buffy had.  
  
"None of us will," Willow finished through gritted teeth, stepping up beside them as well, and as one, the others followed her.  
  
"Predictable," Donner sighed. "But since we are the ones holding the guns, I believe we get to make the decisions." He patted the gun holstered at his side.  
  
"You realize, of course, that we have far bigger problems than Buffy's return?" Giles asked with mild condescension. "The Master has returned and he will destroy the world unless we can stop him. If you stand in our way, you threaten the very survival of the world. Your little grandstand has already cost us a valuable source of information."  
  
"The vampire, you mean?" Donner asked, then shrugged. "We're in the business of killing, Rupert, not interrogating. Was a time when you knew that. At any rate, we were sent here with one mission, and it is that mission we intend to fulfill."  
  
"We will stop you," Giles uttered darkly, eyes flashing like steel.  
  
"I thought you had larger concerns?" Donner asked, loftily. He paused, then tapped a long, thin finger against his chin, contemplative. "Very well. Since it seems this means so much to you, I will give you twenty-four hours to put this situation right. If, by the end of that time you have failed to contain or 'fix' the other Slayer, which I highly doubt, then we will go into action." He gave a whip-thin smile. "All out of the goodness of my heart, of course."  
  
"You don't have a heart," Giles stated with certainty.  
  
"All right then," he shrugged amiably. "Out of my sense of sportsmanship. I love a good challenge, you see."  
  
"We're so touched," Xander said, seething sarcasm.  
  
"Don't be," Donner said, his manner turning dark and business like once again. "Because I'm certain you will fail, and I find the idea of your anguish, having tried and failed, so much more delightful than killing you outright. But rest assured, after the next twenty-four hours, if you get in our way, we __will kill you."  
  
"Not if we kill you first," Angel said with deadly softness.  
  
Donner smiled again, in that thin, sharp way that did not penetrate his eyes. "Then let the games begin."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"So, you wanna suss this out for me?" Spike asked and snapped shut his cigarette lighter, inhaling deeply.  
  
The Master and Daeonira shared a look, seeming to debate for a moment, then the woman stepped forward.   
  
"The short version, then," she said, tersely. "I unearthed the Master's bones from the place where the Anointed One buried them after Buffy smashed them. They were sealed within a metal coffin wreathed in sigils of power to—"  
  
"The Anointed One, eh? You mean he was good for something after all? I offed him myself, you know," Spike said, drawing himself up proudly. Daeonira scowled and started to continue, but he cut her off with an abrupt gesture. "That's the only part of what's already happened that I _didn't_ know, _luv_," he said sarcastically. "Want to tell me something new? Something that's not yesterday's news?" he challenged, raising his brows.  
  
She stared at him in outraged silence for a moment, and then she breathed deep and seemed to resolve herself. "Fine. You and Buffy and several of my followers will be taking a short visit to Los Angeles."   
  
"This a paid vacation, then?" he asked, exhaling smoke. Buffy shot him a crooked grin.  
  
"Your reward will come after you've retrieved what we've sent you for," Daeonira said coldly.  
  
"So what is this item, exactly?" he queried, still sounding nonplussed.  
  
"It is what will bring our vampire paradise to earth. That is all you need know."  
  
"Oh, it's all right, _mistress_," Buffy said, placing particular, sarcastic emphasis on the title. She sidled up to Spike and snaked an arm around his shoulders, rubbing her cheek against his. "You can tell Spikey our plans. He's on our side, now, aren't you lover?" she asked, looking up at him with glittering eyes.  
  
"I'm on _your_ side, luv," he said to Buffy with a pointed look at Daeonira.  
  
She eyed him with shrewd interest, then shrugged. "It would be of no use to you, anyway. The Master is the one prophesized to invoke its power."  
  
"Wonderful," he quipped tonelessly. "You want to answer the question now?"  
  
"Tell him the story, Daeonira," the Master urged, unfurling his hand from beneath his chin. "It can do no harm. And I do so love a good story."  
  
"Very well." She licked her lips, warming to the subject. "The 'item', as you so…quaintly term it, is called the Winnowin. It is a very ancient, very powerful artifact. We need it to free the Master and invoke the apocalypse."  
  
"So why not just get it yourself?" Spike asked with impatience.  
  
She folded her hands within her cloak and turned, walking several steps away from them. "It's protected with a rather ingenious spell. Very well done, very thorough. The magic ensures that none can touch the Winnowin until a hero of good and an agent of evil willfully join together to bring it forth."  
  
"That doesn't sound so very difficult."  
  
"Think on it—a hero, a defender of good, one who champions the cause of noble spirit. Would one such as that ever seek to align themselves with evil to invoke such power? One of noble heart would not desire such power and would see the dangers in freeing it. Likewise, they would know that an evil creature would seek to use it only for destruction." She spread her arms and smiled again. "Ingenious, as I said."  
  
"A hero could be forced. Steal his family, hold 'em hostage. Wire his whole town to blow. Lots of ways."  
  
"A truly noble hero could not be forced. But, the people who protected the Winnowin allowed for that possibility. Not magic nor charm nor word could be employed sway the hero; else the Winnowin could not be touched. That is why it must be a _willful_ joining. A decision made of free will and thus, of good intent on the part of the hero, one would hope. For two such creatures to learn of the Winnowin and seek it together is a near impossibility."  
  
"So how do we get it out then, if the plan's so bloody foolproof?"  
  
"When we sought to bring the Master back, we knew that the eventual plan entailed the joining of two such creatures, but not why. I had hoped that my dark influence on Faith and my subsequent death would unhinge her sufficiently enough to join my cause when the time came. I didn't plan on Angel or the others entering into the equation. Fortunately, through their spell to return Buffy, they gifted us with exactly what we needed."  
  
Spike thought for a moment, seemed about to say something, then clenched his jaw and remained silent.  
  
"Oh, I know she doesn't _seem_ the picture of a noble warrior," Daeonira went on delightedly, as if Spike had spoken exactly what he was thinking. "But she fulfills the requirements well enough. She is still a Slayer; one Chosen to be a hero; the defender of good. Her power and heritage gives her that right as if it were from birth. And she has a soul," she concluded as if that settled the matter. "She __will suffice, as Faith would have, had I been able to bring her to our side."  
  
He snorted in disbelief. "And you expect me to believe this fairy tale?"  
  
"Why Spike," Daeonira said, turning toward him with terrible smile. "We __are dealing with a prophecy, after all. I'd expect you to be a bit more of a believer."  
  
"I'll tell you what I _don't_ believe. You've known all along what this thing is, where it is and how to get it, it's bloody __key to your plan, but you're sending __me and Buffy out to fetch it?"  
  
"As I said, the circumstances must be right. The two seekers must agree and seek it willfully. Were I to go with Buffy, we would not succeed; she doesn't trust me. Faith would by now, if she stood at my side, but she is not here."  
  
"Know what else I don't believe?" he asked with a roguish grin. "I don't believe you know the first thing about what it __does."  
  
She shifted her shoulders and stiffened, as if bracing herself. "You're right," she admitted. "We don't know what it does, only how it must be attained."  
  
Spike stared at her in absolute silence for a moment. "Bullocks," he spat.  
  
"We know what it will be used __for, of course; the prophecy details its importance in the apocalypse, but doesn't say what it does, exactly."  
  
"Bloody hell," he sighed, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. He hadn't honestly thought she didn't know; he'd only been trying to goad her into telling him. "I don't believe this!"  
  
"Well, you don't have to believe, of course. You just have to do it."  
  
He thought about that for a moment. "And you say this thing's in Los Angeles?"  
  
"Of course, it's not _exactly_ Los Angeles, but the gateway to where you need to go lies there."  
  
He took a moment more to think on it. This thing, whatever it was, probably stood a high chance of destroying the world if put into the Master's hands. But that was nothing new to him after the Judge and Acathla. In fact, objects and people who had the power to end the world had always held a level of boredom for him. They were tedious things bent on one purpose, always big with the planning and talking and preaching. He'd tried to stop them, of course—mostly he liked the world just the way it was—but he'd never seriously risked himself trying to stop them. So why start now?   
  
A taunting voice spoke up in the back of his mind, reminding him that last time someone had tried to end the world he'd almost died trying to defend it—__would have died willingly, for her. And she had died instead. She had sacrificed herself to save it all. And now she clung to his side like second skin, back from the grave and half-mad, as ready and eager to end the world as the other two.   
  
If she'd wanted to end the world last time, would he have stopped her? He didn't think so. In fact, he'd have probably helped her right along with a song in his heart. But what about now? And what about the others?  
  
"The Scoobies'll get in our way," he said, suddenly realizing. They _would_ come, and he had no idea how felt about that. Didn't want to have to think about it—didn't want to have to find out.   
  
"No, they won't," Daeonira assured him in that arrogant voice that made him want to smash her teeth in. "After the phone call I made earlier, I think they're going to find themselves quite preoccupied. In fact, the sooner you and Buffy get out of town, the safer we'll all be."  
  
"What do you mean?" he asked, eyes narrowing dangerously.  
  
"I mean that the Council is back in town, and they're looking to take out Buffy. Of course…" Her demeanor shifted almost instantly to one of cunning. "I'm _sure_ they'll never think to look for her _here_, but one can never tell, and if they found her…" she let her voice trail off with grim suggestion, shrugging.  
  
He acted as if that were of little consequence; tossed the cigarette and snuffed it out beneath his boot, taking his time. He was sure the bitch knew she'd cornered him, but be damned if he would give her the satisfaction of seeing it in his face. If he'd been left with a choice, would he have agreed? He wasn't sure… and now, he supposed, he'd never know. He couldn't risk them finding Buffy. Not now, not after…  
  
Spike tilted his head slightly to look at Buffy, who still stood at his side, and saw the eager light reflected in her deep, gray-green eyes. That light drew him from his train of thought like a moth to flame, and he felt his questions slip away one by one. This mission sounded like craziness. Even if the thing existed, they didn't know what the hell it did!  
  
"And if we get this bauble for you, then what happens?" he asked with a casualness he didn't feel. "Do you know _that_?"  
  
"Why, we use it to make heaven on earth, of course," Daeonira answered immediately with an almost innocent blink. Then the look of innocence faded and she smiled with the hungry look of a wolf. "For __vampires."  
  
The vision of Dru spinning madly beneath bleeding, rotting corpses flashed through his mind—but he didn't allow himself to dwell on idle thoughts this time. Buffy was looking at him; as expectantly as they were _all_ looking at him, and he knew if he hesitated it would likely mean his death.  
  
"Right then," he said with a nod. "Disneyland for vampires." He cocked his head at Buffy and slung an arm around her. "What do you say, luv?"  
  
She brightened and grinned at him in that way that melted his heart.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith stood in the alley behind the Magic Box, hands shoved deep in her pockets as she stared up at the night sky. The others were sleeping, finally, just for a little while until the sun rose and Donner's clock started ticking away. They'd wanted to start out right away of course, but they'd already been awake for two days and there was no way Faith was going to let them keep going. It had taken a good half an hour of arguing, but she'd finally convinced them (mostly) and she'd had Willow cast a spell so that they __could sleep.  
  
But not on her. No. She didn't get to sleep. She needed time to think and plan and figure out what their next move was going to be, and she dearly wished there were somebody else here to do it for her.  
  
The Council, Buffy, Beatrice, the Master. The problems and betrayals seemed to pile on top of one another in a never ending supply. How was she supposed to know what to do? Know what was right?  
  
"Faith?" Angel asked, pushing open the door behind her. He hesitated a moment, then stepped out into the darkness. "You okay?"  
  
She turned, found a cynical smile, and hitched up her shoulders. She wondered how she looked to him, and thought of the day (had it really only been a few weeks ago?) when she'd looked in the mirror and examined herself with new eyes. She still looked the same; same black clothes and eyeliner, same long dark hair and dark, shiny lips. But her soul felt tired and stretched, worn and ill-fitting. She felt like a stranger in her own body.  
  
_"Before she died, Buffy was… She was afraid. She was scared, and tired, and… defeated."  
_  
Spike words whispered through her mind, and she tried not to shiver. Tried hard not to think about how much she was coming to understand how Buffy had felt. And Spike… where _was_ Spike? Part of her worried for him, maybe even missed him a little, strange as that seemed to her, and she shook away the thought, focusing on Angel instead.  
  
"Sure, just, you know, checking out the stars while they're still up there."  
  
He glanced up at them, then moved a step closer to her. "You're worried." It wasn't a question.  
  
She gave a short, bitter laugh. "It's the end of the world and I'm in charge. Aren't _you_?"  
  
He shook his head, eyes never wavering from hers. "No."  
  
She chuckled. "You know, I think I got cheated on this hero deal, 'cause I didn't get the naïve hope part of the package."  
  
"Comes with the good guy carrying card," he said with the ghost of a smile.  
  
"Huh. Mine musta got lost in the mail."  
  
"You've got a plan?" he asked after a moment.  
  
She shrugged. "Yeah. Much of a plan as we can have, I guess."  
  
Angel found his eyes focusing on the shape of her lips, the fullness and shine of them instead of the words they were speaking, and he felt his belly tighten with the familiar feeling of self-disgust. He was so weak… he always had been. That was what it meant to be human, to have a soul. To be ruled by your emotions and desires.  
  
"Want to talk about it?" he asked, mentally kicking himself into paying attention.  
  
"No," she said, with an impertinent toss of her hair. "I'm tired of all the doom and gloom. Let's talk about something else. Or…" She stepped closer to him, perhaps sensing his thoughts, her dark eyes lighting with mischief. "We could just… not talk."  
  
He'd done a great deal of thinking over the last several days, especially in the last twenty-four hours, and he knew that now, of all times, was probably the worst they could have chosen to become distracted like this. It could be disastrous. And yet, he couldn't seem to stop himself. His mind kept trying to draw comparisons, tried to warn him that this was no different than what had happened with Buffy, and that it had to end the same way. But he didn't believe it. It wasn't true, after all.   
  
He'd left Buffy so that she could have a normal life, for all the good that had done her. But Faith wasn't Buffy. Buffy would always yearn for normality, for the sun, for places that Angel could never take her and things he could never be to her. Faith loved the night, craved the danger, relished the kill, and she wanted a partner in that—wanted him, specifically, it seemed. He could be what she wanted.  
  
So easy, he thought, to lull himself into complacency, to justify this to himself so he could have what he wanted.  
  
As if she could read what he felt in his eyes, Faith tilted her head at him. "You don't love me." She said it without emotion, without blame, but he thought he could see the faint hurt in her eyes all the same.  
  
He shook his head slowly, closed his eyes. _Not yet_, he answered silently, though sometimes it felt like a damned near thing.  
  
"Good," she said, almost fierce. He felt her embrace him suddenly, all soft curves and sleek, hard muscle, and his eyes snapped open with surprise.  
  
She grinned at him, and there was a hard edge to it. "But you want me."  
  
He tried to speak, swallowed, then nodded. "I do, but—"  
  
She shook her head and the hard edge faded slightly. "No 'buts'. No love means no true happiness, right?" He thought he could see something fragile there in the set of her eyes, determined and tough though they were, and for an instant he was in terrible peril of falling in love with her then and there. "Now shut up," she said, and kissed him.  
  
He did.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
_Elsewhere…  
_  
_At the center of the world it lies; shrouded in mystery, cloaked and hooded by ancient words and symbols of power that bind it here, its smooth, perfect dimensions cradled within the fine silver and gold of its resting place. Its glass is incredibly clear and clean, without a speck of dust to mar its perfect surface, and it gleams reflectively in the constant, glowing light of the chamber. Murals depicting ancient peoples stretch over every wall around it, and are the only thing reflected in its silent, still depths, its convex surface warping and twisting them within the glass.   
  
It has been called many things in its time—axis, talisman, nexus—and while none of them have been quite perfect titles, all of them have been true. Many have believed it only a legend, and its tale is so obscure that its story has fallen between the cracks of mythology. Yet, Kings and Demons alike have coveted it, and it has outlived them all.  
  
No hand has touched it in more than a millennia, and it has not been moved from this chamber for far longer than that. It has lain here for centuries, passive and inert, only waiting for the time it will be called.  
  
Pale, white light flickers for an instant at its center, pulsing like a heartbeat as it stirs.  
  
--thumpthump—  
  
The murals reflected in its surface disappear momentarily as the light flutters like the wings of a tiny moth then vanishes. Ancient faces bathed in cool, blue light return to their places in the glass, settling in with the ease of thousands of years. No one has gazed on the glass or its chamber in much of that time, but if one could gaze now and compare, they might notice that the faces are slightly different. Formerly expressionless features curve within the glass and seem to frown, eyes and mouths turning downward as if in disapproval.  
  
--thumpthump—  
  
The light flashes again, brighter this time, like lightning.  
  
The room seems to contract around the pedestal with the glass at its center, and there is a sound like cracking thunder as the stone gives.  
  
--thumpthump— thumpthump—   
  
The murals on the wall shift, and a group of ancient hunters clothed in furs and skins ripple and change. Their faces twist and melt like butter as they run together and then reform. The features of primitive man are replaced with those of reptilian origin, blunt snouts and snaking tongues taking shape as they crouch low to the ground, dressed in rags of cloth and leather.  
  
--thumpthump— thumpthump— thumpthump— thumpthump—  
  
Like a fire beginning to catch, the white light kindles and pulses with steady beats, faint and opaque at the center of the glass, not quite reaching the darkened edges.  
  
Ancient faces, now barely visible on the glass surface, no longer mirror the expressions carved into the walls at all. Eyes wide, their formerly grim stone mouths hang open in a thousand silent screams.  
  
At the center of the world it lies, and pulses… and waits.  
_  
  
_


	16. Mortal Ground 2 Chapter 16: Seekers

CHAPTER 16: SEEKERS  
  
You look into the bedrock and listen to the bells  
calling liquid lust,   
call for solid white  
I see the stalker in your face   
the secrets in your skin  
I keep the wisdom that you need   
the password that you want  
I feel the stalker in your mind   
the fire in your veins  
no hope to be released  
I'm a multitude of travels to the other side  
  
            ~Stalker, Covenant  
______________________________________________  
  
For a moment, Spike was confused.  
  
"Well, this is impressive. Weren't we just standing in front of the Times building?" He looked at the building with angry impudence, pissed off that it continued to stand there. "What the bloody hell? I thought the portal was supposed to—"  
  
"Wait," Buffy said, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Look."  
  
The building looked almost identical to the Los Angeles Times building they'd just gone under, but studying it for a second, Spike saw that it was slightly different after all. The same two portals were carved in the stone above the entryway, but the giant eagles that had been there moments ago had now grown the hindquarters of lions. Griffons they were called, if he remembered right. The stone was also slightly darker and the edges of the building were trimmed with gold—that was something you'd sure as hell never see in LA. On either side he could still see the city, all tall dark buildings and glimmering lights, but it seemed blurry, indistinct, as if viewed through a cloudy lens. Neat trick, that.  
  
And then… the stones themselves seemed to melt, to shift and move, bleeding together into one malignant mass—he blinked. The stones shifted back, if indeed they had ever moved, and it was just a building again, brick and mortar and glass. He shook his head to clear it, wondering what the hell that was all about, and took another look. Dark stone seemed to swell and breathe with a life all its own, its body crouched low against the horizon. The twin portals above the entryway blazed violently red for an instant, a pair of predatory eyes that dared—no, _begged_ for them to enter. He blinked and the lines of the building straightened again, forming a solid, unassuming stone structure.  
  
"Did anyone slip mushrooms into that last bit of Taco Bell we ordered?"  
  
Several lackeys frowned and blinked in incomprehension, protruding brow ridges rendering their faces infinitely dull and stupid. They wouldn't have had the savvy to feed him drugs if someone had paid them and given them written instructions with diagrams. And Buffy… well, Buffy didn't _need to feed him drugs, now did she?  
  
"Right then. Well, this must be the place," he said with a nod.   
  
Drawing himself up, he took a step forward and mounted the wide stone stairs.  
  
That was when everything went straight to hell.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
The sun had barely broken the horizon in Sunnydale when Giles hung up the phone and returned to where everyone was just waking.  
  
"Yeah, so what'd they say?" Faith asked.  
  
"They won't listen to reason, of course," Giles said with a tired sigh. "Not that I expected them to after sending in the assassins," he added with distaste.  
  
Faith shrugged and gathered up the rest of her gear, shoving it casually into her backpack. "Whatever. It's not like I expected much from the 700 Club anyway."  
  
Giles smiled slightly, despite himself. "They said a great deal more than that, though, Faith," he went on, smile fading from his face. "They've specifically ordered that you not interfere with the Black Ops team."  
  
Faith froze. Slowly, she turned to look at him, her eyes so furiously cold he nearly shivered beneath their gaze. "Good for them."  
  
"Yes, quite," he agreed with thick sarcasm. "However, the fact remains that they are the ones who negotiated your release from prison. If you don't cooperate with them, there's no telling what they may do."  
  
Her eyes grew even colder, if that were possible, but there was a look of mistrust in them now. Giles was surprised to find how much that troubled him.  
  
"Are you gonna tell me not do this?"  
  
"Me?" He was astonished. "Good Lord, no."  
  
"Good." She shrugged as if the matter were finished and turned to finish packing her things.  
  
"But Faith…" His voice caught her in mid-turn and she glanced at him again with those dark, resolute eyes. "The fact remains that they do have a claim to you of sorts that they never had with Buffy. They got you out of prison, and they could likely put you back there if they decided you were too troublesome. Or worse," he added, suddenly reminded of their recent visitors.  
  
"Gosh, you don't really think they'd do that, do you?" Xander asked with sarcasm so heavy it almost sounded sincerely pleasant.  
  
"Considering the number of times Quentin Travers repeated those very words to me, I'd say it's a sure thing."  
  
"I'd like to see them try," Angel said.  
  
Faith, however, said nothing for a moment. There'd been a time, not long ago, when those kinds of threats from the Council would have worried her. Now, they left her cold, unmoved, and she only had to look around her to see why she was no longer frightened. She wasn't alone anymore.  
  
Damn. I have _friends_. Okay, not really. But sort of. When did that happen?  
  
"I don't give a damn about the Council or the Sean Connery wannabe," she spoke up, brisk and impatient. "If the Master had his finger on the button they'd have to huff and puff and take a meeting."  
  
"Faith…" Giles' eyes searched hers. "Are you certain? You don't have to do this. We could—"  
  
"Are you scared of them?" she asked suddenly, almost accusing.  
  
Giles looked mildly offended. "Of course not. I merely—I, I just… I don't want to put you in any unnecessary danger."  
  
Her expression softened slightly, and she smiled a crooked, half-cynical smile. "Being Danger Girl? Kinda my job."  
  
"Yes, but—"  
  
"Shut up, Giles," she said almost kindly. "Thanks for being a gentleman and all, but I'm doing this, and I'm doing it all the way."  
  
Words hung poised on the tip of Giles' tongue for an instant, then slowly, he gathered himself, nodded slightly and drew back.   
  
"I know," he said with a small smile that creased his face like well-worn leather.  
  
"Besides," she went on, zipping up the backpack and slinging it onto her shoulders. "It's not like I'm breaking any rules yet. Donner gave us twenty four hours."  
  
A rustle of uneasiness passed through the Scoobies. The charge of emotions in the room was very palpable, like electricity, black and yellow and buzzing all around them like an angry swarm of bees.  
  
"Now if we only knew where to look," Willow said ruefully.  
  
Faith glanced at her, hesitated a moment as she gauged the emotional storm cloud. "I do."  
  
The swarm erupted in a squeal of static electricity.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Where?"  
  
"How?"  
  
Faith looked down at the toes of her boots, words leaving her mouth reluctantly. "She's down in the tunnels. She has to be."  
  
"No." Willow shook her head vehemently. "No way."  
  
She tossed her hair back and switched her shoulders, uncomfortable and impatient. "Come on Red. Think about it. I'm Buffy. I'm pissed off at my friends for bringing me back and I can't die until they're all dead. I wanna kill them, and I'm crazy to boot. Where do I go?"  
  
"She could be anywhere," Willow argued heatedly. "You don't know that!"  
  
And she sympathized with Willow, she really did. But that didn't change what she knew. "Spike didn't come back, either. He went down to check on the bad guys, and I can only think of two reasons he wouldn't come back. A, he's dead, which I don't believe for a second, or B, he found Buffy. You all know how he felt—feels about her."  
  
"What?" Angel asked, blinking.  
  
Faith shook her head and didn't answer, still focused on her thought. "I should have thought of that before we sent him down there."  
  
"Or C, he got a better offer than we were giving him," Xander spoke up. "It's not like Spike's the most loyal guy around."  
  
"You really think he'd just join up with the Big Bad and leave Buffy out there to fend for herself?"  
  
"If the price was right," Xander agreed.  
  
"No." Dawn shook her head slowly and looked up at Xander. "No way. He'd never do that. He loves her."  
  
"Dawn—" Xander began.  
  
"He wouldn't. You know he wouldn't."  
  
Xander sighed and looked away, defeated.  
  
"Loves?" Angel asked.  
  
"Much as we would like to believe that Buffy would never ally herself with the, ah, forces of evil, we can't ignore the facts. It bears checking out, at the very least," Giles said, sounding much more reasonable than he felt.  
  
"Loves?" Angel asked again.  
  
"Right," Faith agreed with Giles. "And that's why I need you all to stay here."  
  
The room exploded in a chorus of voices, and she let them run their course before she spoke again.  
  
"I need to know what's going on down there before we all go in. That's why we sent Spike, remember? And I need all of you on research, anyway."  
  
"But Buffy—" Xander began to argue.  
  
"Wow, they couldn't have come up with a better way to distract us from the apocalypse if they'd tried." She rolled her eyes. "Look. I know we need to find Buffy, and we _will_, but we also need to know what we're up against. We still don't even know what kind of vampire Daeonira is, or how she keeps such a grip on her followers. How am I supposed to fight her and stop the apocalypse if I don't know anything about her?" She stopped, blinked. "And when did I become the voice of reason around here?"  
  
"She's right," Giles said after a heavy pause.  
  
"I'm _not_ staying here." Dawn's voice quavered with emotion.  
  
Faith sighed, her expression of impatience fading slightly. "Dawn. I know you want to find Buffy. I'll find her, or we _all_ will, one way or another. If I don't find her when I go down, then we'll all go look when I come back. Besides," she said with a grim smile. "Your sister would kill me if she knew I was taking you down into the enemy's lair. I'm __so not gonna deal with that when we get her back."  
  
Dawn stared at her, green eyes wavering and mistrustful. "And if you don't find her we all go together?"  
  
"Swear," Faith said, holding up one hand.  
  
Dawn folded her arms over her chest and flopped down into a chair, staring up at Faith moodily. "If you screw this up, I'll kick your ass myself."  
  
Faith raised her brows at the girl and gave her a half-smirk. Girl had balls; you had to give her that. She might have been created by monks—at least, according to what Giles had told her—but she was Buffy's sister through and through. It was there in the stubborn set of her jaw, the obstinate glare in her eyes.   
  
Fair enough. Faith straightened the backpack on her shoulders, then turned. "You ready, Angel?"  
  
"Wait a minute," Xander said, holding up a hand. "How come Angel gets to go?"  
  
Angel favored him with a condescending smile. "Because I'm special."  
  
Faith shot him a look that said she could handle this herself, then looked back to Xander. "Because Angel can take care of himself, and I need some kind of back-up."  
  
"Oh really?" Xander asked, oozing sarcasm. "And it wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that you're mooning over him?" Faith's lips thinned and her eyes went hard as stone. Xander smiled unplesantly. "I'm sure Buffy will be __touched by your loyalty when you find her."  
  
Faith's jaw tightened and a muscle twitched beneath her left eye. Okay, maybe she could handle this with a hard right to Xander's smirking mouth. That would work, right?  
  
Angel shifted inside his coat and shot Xander an annoyed glance. "Maybe you missed the memo, but Buffy and I haven't been together for a long time now."  
  
"And I'm so sure she'd be okay with you and Faith getting together."  
  
"I don't think that's any of your business," Angel contradicted darkly.  
  
"Xander, we're all worried about Buffy." Giles cleared his throat and gave Xander a look of mild reproach. "Don't be an ass."  
  
"What?" Xander turned on Giles, eyes uncomprehending. "Giles don't tell me you think—"  
  
"What I think doesn't matter. Angel's right; it's none of our business," he said quite seriously. "Getting Buffy back and stopping the apocalypse are the only things that are important now." He slid his hands into the pockets of his pants and turned his attention to Faith, nodding briefly to her. "You'd better get going. Time is wasting."  
  
She stared at him for a second, then the corner of her mouth quirked up in the tiniest hint of a smile. For a second, he swore he saw a flash of something grateful in her eyes, and then she turned, vanishing through the door to the basement. Angel followed behind her without a second glance.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
The sound of wrenching stone was deafening. For a moment it seemed to come from everywhere, crashing and whirling all around them like the gale winds of a tornado—and then Spike saw something move.  
  
One of the stone griffons gripped the edge of its portal with sharp, gray talons. Tiny cracks spread out from the holes each talon pierced in the stone, and the brick seemed to bubble and bulge beneath the strength of its grip.  
  
"That—that wasn't like that before," stuttered out some nameless lackey from behind him.  
  
"No," Spike said, voice soft and musing. "It wasn't."  
  
The other griffon's head turned slowly in their direction with the same deafening sound of thunder, vicious beak parting to reveal a pointed, alien tongue. It hissed at them, stone feathers rising on the back of its neck.  
  
"I think we'd better hurry," Spike said, grabbing Buffy's hand and pulling her up the stairs two at a time.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith and Angel moved through the sewers in uncomfortable silence. The sounds of dripping water echoed and resounded all around them, evoking a distant sense of nostalgia in Faith, which was followed instantly by cynical distaste. It was sad, really, when you thought about how many of her recent emotional memories were tied up in this place—or underground in general. Not exactly the most romantic setting she could imagine. But then, she wasn't much on romance.  
  
She slid a surreptitious sideways glance at Angel and wondered how true that still was. She'd always been about fire, about want and need. Sex was like a force of nature housed in the small frame of her body, one that moved her like a tempest, caught others in the storm and left them gasping in wonder as she discarded them and left them behind. But that had been a different girl… hadn't it? She didn't have any idea _who_ she was anymore, and this, whatever it was between them, was playing for far higher stakes than she'd ever imagined. She felt as if she'd been swept up in the tempest instead of being the one who drove it. And she wasn't sure if she loved it, or hated it.  
  
And either way… did it really matter? She'd played the odds and lost often enough to know what they were.  
  
As if he could read her thoughts—and sometimes she wondered if he really could—Angel spoke. "Don't let him get to you. I can't remember the last time Xander had anything good to say where I was concerned."  
  
A short breath of laughter escaped her. "Yeah. Me neither." She shook her head, hesitated over the next words. "But he's right."  
  
Angel hesitated in mid-step, and she cut him another look out of the corner of her eye. In the dim blue light of her glow stick, his face was troubled. "Do you feel guilty?"  
  
She thought about it, shrugged. "A little." She cleared her throat, feeling uncomfortable, and followed the admission with a casual, "I know, imagine that, huh? How about you?"  
  
"A little," he agreed quietly, and nodded.  
  
She said nothing after that, and he let her lapse into silence, perhaps caught up in his own thoughts. It wasn't like there hadn't been doubt before this. There was the whole soul deal to think about, and the thin line they were dancing along was sure to fall out from under them sooner or later. If… __when they found Buffy, and they made her right again, that line was bound to snap and leave them both twisting in the wind. She'd known that from the beginning.  
  
_So why'd you let it get this far?_ asked her ever-cynical conscience.  
  
Even her smart-assed argumentative side didn't seem to have an answer for that.  
  
She paused as the tunnel dropped off and waited as Angel swung down onto the rungs of the ladder below. She waited another moment, then grabbed the glow stick between her teeth and swung down after him. Damned chemistry. She was so aware of his every move, the comforting bulk of his presence, the tingle of electricity that his nearness sent through her body. And what the hell? It wasn't like she was a school girl, was it? There'd been plenty of guys and this was just—  
  
Her hand slipped on a slimy rung, and still caught up in her thoughts, she didn't move quick enough to catch herself.  
  
She fell backward, instinctively spitting out the glow stick as she lost her balance, and for a moment there was a feeling of vertigo as she twisted, readying herself to roll when she hit the ground—then strong arms caught her around the waist and spun her around.   
  
Her feet dangled several inches from the floor, and the glow stick hit the ground just below the soles of her boots. In its feeble light, she found herself almost eye to eye with Angel, her lips within centimeters of his, bodies pressed tightly together. He held her just high enough that he had to tilt his head back slightly and look up at her. She felt her heart speed up as she looked into his eyes, a bright spark of heat igniting in her belly and streaking off through every nerve. For an instant, the veil that always fell across his emotion was torn away and she could see his desire for her burn in the depths of his dark eyes.  
  
His lips parted slightly and he took a quick, unnecessary breath.  
  
And despite the moment—despite how much she wanted to give in to her instincts and kiss him until they were both writhing on the floor—she only smirked and shook her head once.  
  
"We are _so_ doomed."  
  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Anya wiped down the shelf filled with exotic spices, wrinkling her nose at the cloying cacophony of scents they exuded. She was bored; utterly bored, nervous and slightly afraid. It was a combination of emotion that filled her tummy with a queasy sensation she didn't enjoy very much, and the overwhelming smell of spice wasn't helping. She'd hoped that cleaning the shop, which always made her feel happy, peaceful and productive, would still her whispering doubts. But so far it had only seemed to intensify them.  
  
She sighed, threw the rag down impatiently and folded her arms over her chest. Stupid human emotions. She didn't think she'd ever get used to them. Like the feeling that she got whenever she glanced down at her blank ring finger, for instance. It looked so empty, so bereft without the beautiful diamond Xander had bought for her. Just _looking_ at that smooth, unadorned skin filled her with an unhappiness she couldn't begin to untangle or overcome.   
  
Her mind picked up speed as it seized on this familiar train of thought. Oh, she'd _tried_ to get Xander to let her tell the others, but he'd insisted that everything was too sad with Buffy gone, and then it was because everything was too uncertain with Faith there, and now there was the apocalypse. Just thinking about the unfairness of it all set her skin on fire with anger.  
  
Why couldn't he tell them? Was afraid of her? Ashamed? She knew what he had told her, but her stupid, wondering human heart hadn't been able to accept it at face value, tormenting her with the idea that she wasn't good enough, wasn't… human enough.  
  
How the hell did people live with these kinds of thoughts all the time? No wonder humans were so neurotic.  
  
She cast a pinched, backward glance over her shoulder to where Xander sat with the others, all of them pouring over books that had so far told them nothing. As if the way she felt weren't bad enough, there were all these… circumstances going on that made Xander act as if her feelings were unimportant. Yes, they were having another apocalypse, but so what? There would always be another impending apocalypse. This was the only time they would be engaged and get married.  
  
Why couldn't he understand that?  
  
She sighed, picked up the dust rag again, and moved on to the spell components shelf, where the smell was less cloying and muskier. She supposed, in a little while, she would go over and help them research some more. Brave little toaster, doing her part. She rolled her eyes and smirked at her own sarcasm. She did care about the apocalypse; just not as much as she cared about Xander and their future together.  
  
Of course, stopping the apocalypse would ensure they had time to have a future together…  
  
She paused in her dusting as this strange new thought occurred to her.   
  
Perhaps she'd go over and help them right now.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Willow sighed as she typed, pulling up all the files related to Daeonira and the Master that they'd found so far. She doubted going over them again would offer them anything new, but Giles had asked her to try, and try she would. Besides, it kept her mind off of other, more ominous things.  
  
She wiped her hands on her jeans as she waited for the last file to finish opening, and wrinkled her nose in disgust as it popped up. Ugh. She'd almost managed to forget about this in the midst of everything else.  
  
The face of Jane Doe in all her grisly glory stared back at Willow, making her squirm in her seat. Normally they would have investigated such an unusual death, but things had been too crazy lately to focus on the small stuff.  
  
Her fingers hovered over the keys, about to move on.  
  
Except…  
  
What if it wasn't small stuff?  
  
The beginning of a thought that was more like intuition took hold, gossamer pattern forming in her mind.  
  
Her fingers fell on the keyboard again, and an instant later she sat back, somehow unsurprised at what she'd found.  
  
"Giles… I think you'd better take a look at this."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
The screeching sound of stone on stone faded behind them as they leaped into the entry way of the building and the doors slammed shut behind them. Buffy was on her feet almost immediately, eyes and cheeks bright with excitement, spinning and looking back toward the closed glass doors.  
  
"They can get through that," she said, sounding as if she actually relished the thought.  
  
Spike rose and dusted himself off, arching a brow at her. He opened his mouth to speak—and whatever he'd been about to say was lost forever as he watched the glass doors waver like they were caught in a heat wave, surface running like melted plastic and hardening.  
  
A moment later, they were staring at a solid wall of stone.  
  
"Or… not." Buffy glanced around, looking uncertain for the first time.  
  
"We—we're safe," stuttered out the lackey, sounding like he'd probably just wet himself with relief.  
  
Spike stared at the smooth, seamless stone and didn't speak, suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling that they'd been safer outside.  
  
Whatever it was that awaited them inside… it wanted them all to itself.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"This is the place?" Angel asked, voice so low it was almost a whisper, but not quite.  
  
Faith glanced at the twin metal boxes and almost shuddered at the darkness within. "Yeah."  
  
Angel paused, contemplating the depth of the prisons with a dark look. "They kept them in there."  
  
Faith nodded, knowing he didn't really require an answer. After a moment, he looked away and moved on, but she could tell that the instant of looking and knowing where Buffy had been had affected him. It was clear in the set of his face, and she marveled that she could tell.   
  
She thought she could feel the thin wire beneath them sway.  
  
They slunk nearer to the outer ledge, concealing themselves against the sides of the opening, and peered around.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"Do you feel that?" Buffy asked, her tone hushed but still carrying the flush of excitement that lit up her face. She took several steps inside the entryway, gaze transfixed and far away.  
  
Spike turned slowly, trying to focus on everything around him. And suddenly he was back in the sixties, blood of the flower people running through his veins. The chamber wasn't just lit; it was _alive_, and it pulsed, it thrummed in his head like the beat of a heart, pounding through his undead veins with the memory of living blood. This wasn't just tripping, this was the _good_ stuff; the kind you could only get back when Jimi and Janis were still alive and strumming. His limbs felt weightless, filled with liquid light that moved like mercury. For the first time in recent memory he felt at peace with himself, filled with tranquility and a sense of fulfillment, a sense of purpose.  
  
"Yeah luv. I feel that." He moved, each step taken like one through molasses, traversing a million miles in a single step.  
  
"What is it?" she whispered, sounding reverent.  
  
Light filled his mind, bright white and perfectly pure, exploding like a supernova. He closed his eyes and let the feeling wash over him, trying to remember the last time he'd felt anything like it. And nothing compared.  
_  
--Come—  
_  
"It's what we came for," he said, eyes opening with the knowledge.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
In the chamber within, the globe flared to life, white light filling the room and obscuring everything on its surface, suffusing everything around it.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith craned her neck around the edge of the opening—  
  
And a huge fist slammed into her face like a comet, exploding in a shower of stars.  
  
She hit the ground hard, head slamming against the ground and setting off another shower of sparks behind her eyes. For a terrible moment, she was paralyzed, unable to right herself, and she shook her head violently to clear it.  
  
She heard Angel move, felt the whispery breath of his trench coat pass her as he engaged her assailant. There was the hard sound of flesh against flesh, and she felt as much as heard the hard thump as Angel hit the ground nearby. Whoever it was, they weren't fucking around.  
  
She blinked, fireworks clearing from her vision, and forced herself up from the ground, barely aware of the blood that trickled from her nose. She grimaced at the hulking vampire that stood before her, thinking that he looked vaguely familiar, and paused to take in the tall mass of him. He was dressed in black vinyl and actually rather handsome despite sporting a multitude of piercings no human would ever subject themselves to. Sneering, she drew back her fist and readied herself.  
  
"Who the hell are you supposed to be?" she asked, and spit as blood trickled into her mouth.  
  
"I am Zhaad," the creature said with more than a modicum of pride.  
  
She wiped at her mouth with one fist and grinned with blood-filled teeth. "You got a 'General' to go with that?"  
  
The creature blinked, genuinely taken aback. "I serve my mistress."  
  
"Right." She drew back and appeared to consider, the corner of her mouth quirking up. "Hey. You're not expecting me to kneel are you?  'Cause I only do that for guys I like."  
  
The creature's confusion clenched into a frown, then bloomed with hatred. He came at her with a fist the size of a ham.  
  
"Somebody's been watching too many Superman movies. That's all I'm saying," she said and ducked.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Spike thought he was still just tripping when the stone knight detached itself from the elaborate wall carving. It was a hell of a hallucination, he thought with distant admiration, watching as the ridiculously sized sword detached with a thick, sucking sound from the serpent it had impaled.  
  
He enjoyed the realistic quality of it right up until the point where the blade sliced within centimeters of his face.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"That all you got?" Faith asked, thrusting up from her ducking position, fist slamming into the creature's midsection with a satisfying crack. She went with the momentum, rolling beyond the vampire, coming up and spinning to face its back. She lashed out again, catching the creature in what would have been its kidneys, had it been alive. "'Cause I'm thinking General Zod was scarier than you."  
  
The creature roared and spun on her, face morphing into monstrous ridges.  
  
"Sexier, too," she added and punched him in the nose. She followed the hit with a rapid spin, foot catching him in the upper ribs and sending him sprawling.   
  
"Oh yeah," she said, grinning down at him. "I'm bad."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Spike barely dodged back in time, and then Buffy was there, Slayer rhythm carrying her across his field of vision like a dancer. She knocked the sword aside by its flat with the edge of her palm, and turned to Spike with a bloody, hungry look that made him squirm with desire.  
  
"I got this one, honey."  
  
And she did.  
  
She struck with the precision of a cobra, fists like venom as she ducked and dodged and lunged around the strikes of the knight's sword.  
  
"Snails move faster than you, Galahad," she quipped with a quick breath, spinning into the stone monstrosity and coming up inside the arc of its sword. Grabbing the creature's arm, she twisted, pivoted with one foot, and spun, using the creature's momentum to bring the sword around against itself.  
  
Its stone head hit the floor with a crunch and rolled by Spike, helmet revealing nothing of its expression.  
  
A second later the stone body fell to the floor with a crash, leaving a smiling Buffy standing in the dust of its wake.  
  
"That was fun."  
  
When the wounded serpent detached itself from the wall, Spike only shook his head and smiled.  
  
"My turn," he said, smirk settling into a sneer.  
  
"Uh-huh." Buffy nodded and grinned.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith ground her teeth and shoved with all her might, trying to push the much larger vampire off of her.  
  
"I broke your ribs before, Slayer," Zhaad spat with a malefic grin. "This time I will break more than that."  
  
Memory shifted and slid, the scent of smoke filling her nostrils, flames flaring all around her, vampire driving its fist into her ribs as she tried desperately to reach her Watcher.  
  
"You," she hissed, though the word had no sibilants.  
  
"Yes," he agreed, smile broadening as he grabbed her head in his hands and prepared to twist.  
  
She straightened her fingers and jammed them into his eyes, pushing past the bursting feel of them, not caring as blood gushed out over her hands.  
  
The vampire screamed and reeled away from her.  
  
She had plenty of time to get to her feet and draw the stake from the small of her back.  
  
Angel stood there, looking amused. "You need any help?"  
  
"Nah. I got it," she said and slapped the stake into her right hand.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
The serpent lay, stone tongue protruding from its reptilian mouth at an even odder angle than its head hung from its body.  
  
"That _was_ fun," Spike commented, licking a stray trail of blood from his forearm.  
  
The stone doors before them fell open and pale brilliant light filled the room.  
  
_--Come—  
_  
They turned from where they stood, and come they did.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith turned from the pile of dust and brushed herself off. "Think anybody heard that?" she asked Angel with a smirk.  
  
"Probably." He nodded, returning the smirk in kind.  
  
"Damn. So much for being sneaky. Guess we're just gonna have to go down there and kick some ass."  
  
Faith strutted out onto the ledge with a clear sense of purpose. Somehow, she felt incredibly free, as if the tussle with the Council, the situation with Buffy and her relationship with Angel had brought everything into clear focus. Or maybe it was simple battle lust, she didn't know or care. All she knew was that she'd had enough of taking the shit life was dealing her and she was ready to share some pain. It was time for payback and a whole lot more.  
  
Everything was quiet, and that disconcerted her. She'd expected everyone to come running after all the noise General Zod had made. But the ledge was clear, and below, she saw only a few scattered followers leading up to the candle ringed circle that contained the Master and Daeonira.  
  
"Looks like the troops have been decimated," Angel said, voice low.  
  
"Yeah," she answered thoughtfully, hand flexing around the stake she held in her hand. She wanted to go down there more than anything, wanted to stake the Master and Daeonira both and be done with it.   
  
Daeonira… Beatrice. Faith had mourned her Watcher's death, and the woman had played Faith for a fool. Vengeance, quiet with all the noise of strategy and planning, now flared like a red rage around her heart.   
  
"Let's do this." She stepped forward.  
  
Angel reached out and laid a hand on her wrist. "I want to kill them as much as you do—"  
  
"Oh, I doubt it," she retorted, spinning toward him.  
  
"But," he went on resolutely. "If they don't know we're here, we should use the opportunity to find out what we can."  
  
"Screw that. I'm dusting some vampire ass. Stay here if you're scared," she huffed and turned away.  
  
He grabbed her wrist more forcefully this time and spun her back. Despite the situation, despite her burning need for revenge, she felt the rush of his nearness, found herself caught in his gaze.  
  
"You said yourself you don't know how to fight Daeonira," he said seriously, eyes mesmerizing her. "And I don't see Buffy down there. Do you?"  
  
Her eyes flickered to the side and she actually stopped to think about it. Always a mistake.  
  
"No," she hedged. "But we've got a chance to end this __now, Angel."  
  
"Maybe," he agreed with a tight nod. "Or maybe we go down there and get ourselves killed. How many prophecies have you heard about being preempted?"  
  
"We don't even know if the prophecy will come true now that he's trapped," she argued heatedly.  
  
"And if there weren't still about fifty or so of them down there, I'd probably agree with you." He blinked, giving her a resolute look. "We can't do this alone Faith."  
  
"The hell we can't," she snapped.  
  
He only looked at her, and she gnashed her teeth angrily. "Dammit Angel."  
  
"We can't do it alone, but we can do it. Just not right now."  
  
"Stop making sense!" she spat, tossing her hair back over her shoulder in annoyance. "God I hate it when you get all logical. Can't we just go throw down without all the drama?"  
  
"We don't have time to waste. We've got the Council on our backs."  
  
"I don't think it'll take very long," she said with an arrogant glance at the scattered minions below.  
  
He paused, steadied himself and raised his shoulders. "Don't make me have to carry you out of here."  
  
All the vampires laid out below her were instantly forgotten, and she drew herself up in kind, shoulders rising as she leaned forward. Her lips curved in a smirk that was deceptively pleasant; the smile of a predator. "Think you can take me?" He'd definitely diverted her attention.  
  
"If I have to," he said, calm and steady, and she felt a tickle of anticipation rise in her chest. Damned chemistry. Even _this_ was turning her on.  
  
She studied him for a minute, eyes and mouth twitching with varying levels of amusement. "You wish."  
  
Angel held his ground a moment then seemed to shrink beneath her stare, chest deflating. "You know…" He shuffled his feet, glanced downward. "It'd be really embarrassing if you _did_ kick my ass.  
  
"Damned right it would," she said with a self-satisfied grin.  
  
"So I was hoping we could skip that part?" he asked, raising his brows hopefully.  
  
"Hah! I knew you—" She stopped, tilted her head at him, eyes narrowing as she caught on to something in his tone.   
  
"You're flattering me to get me out of here," she said wonderingly.  
  
"That was my plan," he admitted, almost sheepish. A beat, then, "Did it work?"  
  
She flexed her grip on the stake one last time, eyed him suspiciously, and finally relaxed. He was right; there was nothing to be gained by grandstanding right now. Her anger, her lust for revenge had gotten the better of her, like it usually did, red hood falling down over her eyes and obscuring everything else. And he'd reached right in and defused her like a pro. Clever. Almost __too clever. She was going to have to watch out for him.  
  
Or maybe it was already too late for that?  
  
She shook off the thought and looked at him speculatively. "You know, you're kinda cute when you're being a wuss."  
  
"Part of my charm," he agreed.  
  
She gave him one last glance up and down, then turned. "You __know I could take you, though," she said as she walked back toward the tunnels, away from the ledge.  
  
Angel slipped his hands into the pockets of his coat and said nothing, smirking as he followed behind.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
The chamber was lit with cool azure light that played over blue-veined marble and light colored-stone. The air itself seemed to curl with the eddy and flow of water, swaying Spike's body gently back and forth as he moved. If he hadn't known better he would have sworn he was walking beneath the ocean. It was comforting, peaceful, and if it weren't for the details catching at the corner of his eyes, it would have been perfect.   
  
All around him there were carvings, pictures of peoples from all times throughout history, some of races he didn't recognize. They flitted like uneasy shadows over the walls, and he was distracted by their movement. Fascination turned to awe and something like horror as he met tiny, empty eyes and realized that the carved people were looking back at him. They rippled and swayed, blue waves distorting their faces as if they lay beneath the surface of the sea, and they, too, might have been peaceful save for the terrified looks fixed upon their faces as they scurried and fled across the stone landscape of their backgrounds. Like a pearl from an oyster, the globe at the center of the room seemed to shed its shell and glow even brighter, the most precious treasure among this seabed of history. White light flooded and replaced blue, and the stone people shielded their eyes as if to shun it. He almost imagined he could hear their screaming voices as they fell where they stood, rendered helpless by the suffusing glow.  
  
It occurred to him that they feared this beauty; their strange, alien eyes unable to gaze upon it and understand its glorious transcendence, and he tilted back his head and laughed. His voice was lost upon the light, as if the globe had swallowed it greedily whole. He didn't mind. The light had given him peace; it was entitled to whatever it liked.  
  
Buffy moved at his side, eyes skittering about the room as she took in the totality of their surroundings. She gazed upon the blanching people scattered over the walls and frowned, coldness touching her heart for these who could not comprehend the greatness at work here. Light flared and she looked to the pedestal, gazed into the orb centered in its gold and silver bed, and saw her destiny cradled within its encompassing embrace. For the first time since she'd been brought back to life she felt real, whole, at peace with herself. Heaven, if that's where she'd been, had been like this. If she'd felt like this from the moment she'd woken, instead of screaming and scratching at her coffin, perhaps they wouldn't be here now.   
  
The voices of everyone in her head lay silent, dormant, as transfixed by the light as she was, and for the first time since she'd drawn breath again, she suffered a moment of doubt.  
  
"This isn't right," she said suddenly, running a shaky hand over her brow. "We shouldn't be here."  
  
Spike turned, surprised by her words, still caught in the rhapsody of feeling. The light seemed to dwindle and recede, its song becoming less urgent as he fell into the green-gray pools of her eyes.   
  
"Buffy?" he asked, like a dreamer waking from deep sleep. For an instant, she was the enigmatic girl who'd so terribly infuriated him and so effortlessly broken his heart, whose shoulders were tiny and strong and filled with the weight of the world. For an instant she was the young, perky bitch he'd wanted to kill, and then the light rippled, changed, and she became the older, sadder girl he'd fought beside—the one who'd gone so nobly to her death and left him in tears. The one who'd treated him like a man.   
  
For that instant, the light ceased to matter.  
  
She blinked at Spike as if seeing him for the first time, her eyes clear of the fog of insanity he'd already grown used to seeing there.   
  
"Spike? Have you… did we…?" She broke off and looked away, eyes widening as the enormity of everything hit her. "Oh my God," she said softly, one trembling hand rising to cover her mouth. Memories hit her like a freight train, and she thought the suffocating weight of them would crush her. The pain was crippling and complete, radiating from every nerve in excrutiating detail, threatening to break her. She clasped her small hands to her face to hold back the tide of tears and almost hoped that it would.  
  
"Buffy?" Spike asked, moving toward her, one hand rising to touch her.  
  
She looked to him with the wide eyes of a child, tears welling helplessly. "Oh God. Please help me," she whispered.  
  
He felt tears rise in his own eyes, moved to embrace her. She was so fragile, a dark shadow of her former self, hands pressed against her face as if they were all that was holding her together. The pain he saw in her in that moment was unbearable, and the moment he saw it, he recognized that it had always been there, hidden just beneath the surface. He could feel the veil of ignorance he'd cast over his own eyes begin to rise, baring ugly truth like flesh laid open to the bone.   
  
Dear God… she was really _in there_. And she was suffering. A stranger in her own body, soul tattered and bloodied around the edges. He could see the shape of her there, trapped inside a poisoned, rotting mind that cruelly mirrored her own; a tiny glimmer of life held prisoner inside a cold, dead heart. She was in there… and she wanted out.  
  
He reached for her.  
  
The globe exploded with light so bright and blinding that they both fell to their knees, hands rising to cover their eyes. The lackeys behind them, who had been so focused on the prize at the center of the room that they hadn't heard a word exchanged, fell to the floor and convulsed like dying fish.  
  
_--COME!—  
_  
The word vibrated, echoing in their minds like an earthquake. It smashed and destroyed every other thought, slicing through rationale with one quick cut.  
  
Spike and Buffy rose to their feet, eyes as blank as glass, and walked to the globe.  
  
One of Spike's hands fluttered out, not quite daring to touch its brilliant fire.   
  
"So beautiful," Buffy whispered, forgotten tears still drying on her cheeks.  
  
_--Now—_it whispered __–together—  
  
Spike's hand trembled like a tree limb caught in a hurricane's fury, and Buffy's rose beside it, even less steady. Their fingers touched, and Spike felt a moment of heat, electricity racing through him and filling him with anticipation. An old memory flickered through his mind; the image of a young boy crouched in a wheat field, holding his breath and tasting ozone on the air as lightning cut viciously through the sky, caught unprepared by the storm and praying it would pass him over. Was it his memory? Did it matter?   
  
Beside him, Buffy ceased to breathe. Their hands overlapped, little fingers intertwining, and the world itself seemed to cease spinning. There was a moment of silence so complete that eternity rushed to fill it—and they placed their hands on the globe.  
  
The world was filled with white hot light that consumed everything. Spike was nothing, he was everything, he was everywhere and nowhere at all, trapped inside this stupid undead shell and alive with singing blood, abandoned and found all at once.   
  
"My… God…" he whispered, strangled.  
  
_Hello, William_, it whispered, voice like an insidious caress through his mind.  
  
_


	17. Mortal Ground 2 Chapter 17: Forsaken

CHAPTER 17: FORSAKEN  
  
I thought that I knew it all  
I'd seen all the signs before.  
I thought that you were the one  
In darkness my heart was won.  
You build me up then you knock me down.  
You play the fool while I play the clown.  
We keep time to the beat - of an old slave drum.  
You raise my hopes, then you raise the odds  
You tell me that I dream too much  
Now I'm serving time, in a domestic graveyard.  
  
            ~The Ubiquitous Mr. Lovegroove, Dead Can Dance  
______________________________________________  
  
They lifted the globe from its pedestal, and—  
  
The dazzling light winked out like a candle flame caught in a sudden wind.  
  
Spike blinked—and found himself holding an empty ball made of spun glass. Other than the fact that the room warped interestingly within its concave insides, it seemed perfectly ordinary, unremarkable, even. The kind of thing a fake fortune teller would have set up in the center of her tent.  
  
Spike gasped with the loss of it, and beside him, he dimly heard Buffy cry out, low and keening. He felt as if something vital had been ripped from his chest, as if someone had reached inside and scooped out everything that mattered, everything that made sense, leaving behind a ragged, bloody hole. He stared with wide, watering eyes, lost; and grief swept through the corridors of his mind like wind through the branches of a hollow tree.   
  
Buffy crumpled to the floor. The din of warring voices in her mind slowly returned, like someone turning up the volume knob on a stereo, and she whimpered and clapped her hands over her ears. Dark water consumed her, devoured her, and swept her away.   
  
Eons of unimaginable despair passed. Slowly, rationality began to return.  
  
Spike knew its name. He couldn't pronounce it, but he knew it. In fact, he wasn't even sure if it was English. Hell, he wasn't even sure it was a _word_. More like a cacophony of syllables that danced on the back of his tongue and kind of made it itch.  
  
One thing he knew for sure—whatever this thing was, it was incredibly powerful.  
  
He still held the globe in his hands, but now it was something far less than the religious artifact it had been before, and his fingers were not so careful, no longer filled with awe. Tilting his head, he examined it in a slightly more dispassionate manner. He still felt betrayed somehow; all that singing and calling and promising of sweet things not delivered. But, as his sense of irony returned, he was remembering that he'd grown used to that over the last few years. The feeling of desertion lost some of its intensity, and he squinted at the thing, turning it over in his hands. When it failed to light up or bite him, he closed his eyes, averted his face, held it at arms length and shook it slightly.  
  
Nothing happened.  
  
He opened one eye and gazed at it mistrustfully. "Well, that's bloody brilliant," he muttered, his voice echoing oddly off the now still stone walls. "Now what?"  
  
In response, the floor trembled beneath his feet.  
  
"Oh, of _course_." He rolled his eyes and tucked the globe close against his chest with one arm turning to grab Buffy's hand.  
  
"Buffy?" He had a real moment of fear when he saw her curled on the floor in the fetal position. He hadn't even noticed she'd fallen. That's what a grip the bloody thing had had on him. _That _worried him.  
  
"Come on, luv," he almost pleaded, pulling at her. "A spot of Indiana Jones and then we're out of here."  
  
She opened her eyes, mad irises of gray-green that smirked from their very depths. "You forgot the bag of sand?"  
  
He gave a rough chuckle. "I did," he answered gravely.  
  
She took his hand and they ran from the room.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
They'd barely reached the outer room where the lackey vampires lay unconscious and bleeding when Buffy stopped, turned to him and demanded, "Give me the globe."  
  
"Luv," he half-laughed. "We can play show and tell later. This whole place is going to come crashing down around our ears any second now."  
  
"Then give it to me, and we'll keep running." Her eyes were cold and hard.  
  
_Throw me the idol, I throw you the whip_. The movie voice careened through his mind crazily, making him want to laugh even harder. Only this wasn't funny.  
  
He didn't want to give it to her—for a multitude of reasons he couldn't puzzle out right that second—but he didn't want to be a nancy boy about it, either.  
  
"Here then. Take it." He thrust it at her with churlish pride.  
  
She ran her hands over it, eager and hungry, eyes devouring every slick, gleaming curve. Spike's mouth tightened and he scowled and—good Lord. Was he jealous? Bloody hell if he wasn't. And he wasn't sure if he was jealous of her attention to the globe because he wanted her, or because he wanted _it_.  
  
She stared into the glassy depths, tiny frown curling her brow like a spoiled child who wants its way. "Why isn't it lighting up?" She sounded almost frantic. "It should light up for me." The lines of her frown deepened into worry. "Maybe it's broken." She shook it gently.  
  
"Luv, if we don't go now, it _will_ be broken," he tried to appeal to the smallest slip of sanity she might have left.  
  
"But why won't it work?" she asked, eyes huge, lower lip trembling.  
  
He focused his attention wholly on her, knowing they'd never get out of here if he didn't get through to her. Years of Dru-conditioning at work. "What do you want it to do?"  
  
Startled by the question, her eyes jolted away from his. Slowly, her arms slid up over the globe and pulled it to her chest possessively. "What it did before."  
  
"Yes, luv. But why?"  
  
"So I…" She glanced to the side for an instant, as if unnerved by the question. The room trembled and she pulled herself together, wrapping herself in a thick cloak of dignity that seemed all too familiar to him. If there'd been a moment of doubt, a modicum of the Buffy he'd seen in the other room, she had vanished now. This girl was cold as ice and mad as a hatter. "So we can finish the apocalypse."  
  
"Buffy," he said slowly, carefully. "You don't want that."  
  
"Don't I?" she asked, face and voice coveting the object in her hands.  
  
The room shook again and he staggered sideways, trying to hold onto his dignity. He wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of here, but be damned if he was just going to let her go after the show she'd put on in the main chamber. Yeah, he noted with cynical detachment, it _was_ a bloody wonder he was still alive after all these years, given his stubborn stupidity. But sod it all; the whole world could crash down around them, it didn't matter. He'd never been much on logic when it came to love.   
  
"Luv. I know you. This obsession with destroying the world? It isn't you."  
  
"Isn't it?" she asked with a vicious smile.  
  
"No. It isn't. Tell me you didn't just cry for help in there. Tell me all you really want is to kill everyone you love. I don't believe it. Not anymore. Not after seeing you like that."  
  
Her face was a livid sea of hatred that made him want to wince. "You want to see me, Spike? Well take a good look, because this is what I am now." Her mouth curled into a sneer so devoid of humanity that it was almost painful to look at. "See, everybody thinks they know. They've got this image of poor, sad Buffy in their minds, and all they feel for her is pity." The self-loathing in her voice could have disintegrated stone. "But they don't. They don't know what it's like to feel like this. To be brought back here from total happiness. Everything hurts. And the only time I don't think about how much it hurts is when the other voices in my mind take over. Then I'm just… free. It's a beautiful thing, really."  
  
"That's not freedom, luv. That's giving up."  
  
A chunk of ceiling shivered and fell to floor, and she glanced at it with disinterested eyes.  
  
"It's all I've got."  
  
"No." He shook his head helplessly. "It isn't, luv. Don't you see? You had—you _have_ so much more. You have people who _love_ you, people who would _die_ for you. People who miss you so much that they'd risk bringing you back from the dead. Buffy… you have it all. Everything. Even me. You made me love you. Evil, nasty vampire, falling all over himself over a Slayer. You think I would have done that if you weren't something special? If you weren't _worth it_?" His eyes blazed at her, piercing blue, almost angry.  
  
"You wouldn't be the first," she said, voice distant and resolute.  
  
Stone shifted, growled and slid, and he didn't care. A harsh laugh escaped him and he didn't just roll his eyes—he rolled his whole head. "Oh, _don't _even try to compare this to Angel. You know this isn't anything like that. Buffy—I don't even have a _soul_ and I love you."  
  
"You think you do," she agreed.  
  
"You _know_ I do," he answered, his voice deathly quiet, trembling on the edge of darkness.   
  
She shook her head, one corner of her delicate mouth curling up in a smirk. She stepped toward him, all attitude and icy anger, and for a disconcerting moment he was reminded of Faith. "Let me tell you what I know, Spike. I know that I'm here, and I _hate_ it. All I want to do is _die_. Do you understand that?" Her voice seemed louder for all its insidious quiet. "No more fighting evil, no more dead mother, no more little sister dependent on me, no more being more machine than girl, no more saving the world, no more pain. _That's_ why I jumped into the portal." Her body trembled with barely contained rage and sorrow, but her heart was walled up tight behind the lifeless marble of her face. "I'm done here, Spike, and they should never have brought me back."  
  
He stared at her, at a loss for what to say for one of the few times he could remember—and yet, his mouth opened. "Buffy—"  
  
"No. I'm not finished!" Her voice shook, and her body trembled so violently that he feared she might shake herself apart. "I can't die until they're all dead, and the only way they're all going to die is if we end the world." Unshed tears of anguish welled in her voice as she spoke, gray-green eyes pinning him in place with burning intensity. "We need this." She clutched the globe so tightly to her chest that he feared it might break and cut her. "_I_ need this," she fairly shouted at him. Then, abruptly, as if realizing how emotional she had become, she stood up stiffly, composing herself. Her face twitched as she brought herself under control, and her gaze grew dispassionate again. "Now. Are you with me, or _not_?"  
  
"Buffy…" He paused, attempting to gather his thoughts in the wake of her emotional torrent. He couldn't help but wonder how much of this was her talking, and how much of it was the madness inside her head.  The floor rumbled and cracked beneath his feet, and he had to fight every impulse to hit her over the head and simply carry her out of the building. "Buffy, this is madness. This thing," he jabbed at the globe impudently, "whatever it is, it's not the answer. It's _alive_. It's _smart_. It made us into puppets, made us do what it wanted. It used _us_, not the other way around. Do you really think the Master will be able to control it?"  
  
"The prophecy says he will."  
  
He did laugh aloud this time. "News flash for you, luv. Prophecies? Not the most reliable creatures in existence. You were supposed to die according to one once, remember?"  
  
"I _did_ die," she said frostily.  
  
"Well," he twisted and postured, throwing back his shoulders as he wrestled out an answer for that one. "_Yeah_. But you came right back."  
  
"And I'm back _now_," she said, flat and emotionless. "Ask me again how happy I am about it."  
  
"Oh, so you're just going to give up? Made your grandstand, took your swan dive and now you think everything should be tied up in a nice little bow?" And now he _was_ furious. "Look at me! Not a man, not a vampire. You think I love this?"  
  
"Oh, being evil is _so_ hard," she mocked.   
  
"Oh no," he said with a smirk. "Evil's all fun and games—'til they give you a handicap." His eyes narrowed meaningfully on her. "Isn't it?"  
  
"You don't know the first thing about it." She was livid with anger.  
  
"Oh. Don't I?"  
  
"You're not me," she seethed.  
  
The room bucked again and he snarled at it. "_You'r_e not you," he snorted. "The Buffy I knew would never give up, no matter how bloody pathetic she felt."  
  
Her face could have been carved from Arctic mountains. "And what do _you_ think Ishould do?"  
  
He blinked. "Well…" he paused, drew himself up and hooked his fingers through his belt loops, leaning back. Posturing. Posturing was good, especially when he felt like such an idiot for arguing what should have been her side of things. "Take it to the others. Let them figure out what it does. It's what they _do_." And then, unable to contain himself, he stepped closer to her, anger falling away, revealing the softness that was the bane of his existence. The words burned on his tongue, filled with regret and reluctance, and yet he couldn't help but speak them.   
  
"We can find a way to fix you, luv. Make you happy again." His eyes locked on hers intently, smoldering with the unconscious intensity that was inherently his. "I know it's what you want." His eyes flickered back and forth over hers, focusing just to the side of her gaze. "Even if it means you don't want me."  
  
"You don't want that," she contradicted him hotly, almost sounding fearful.  
  
"No. I don't," he said earnestly. "But I don't want this either. Seeing you like this, knowing you hurt. Knowing you hate being what you are. You…" he hesitated over the words, took a deep breath and pushed on. "Somewhere in there, you hate yourself for being with me. I know it, because I know _you_, luv. I saw the look in your eyes when you realized what you'd done, what you've been doing. I can stand a lot of things, Buffy, but I can't stand only having part of you. I want it to be real… or not at all." And oh, that was only half the truth, but the only half he could stand existing with.  
  
"Then let me go," she said, voice torn between plea and demand.  
  
He shook his head, slow and resolute. "I can't take watching you die again."  
  
The room shuddered around them, cracks appearing in the intricately carved artwork. The face of a primitive human split down the middle, wall bulging angrily through the upper half of his broken brow.  
  
Buffy's head fell to the side and she shook her head, eyes closing as if in pain. "Oh, Spike," she said with soft melancholy, and he thrilled to hear his name spoken in those caressing tones. She moved up to him and touched his face, letting one hand run along the sharp, lovely contour of his cheekbone. He thought the room might have shook again, but he was too distracted to be sure. He leaned into her caress, eyes pleading with her to see reason, and she smiled, the most odd smile he'd ever seen on her lovely face.  
  
"So predictable," she whispered, regretful.  
  
He'd barely begun to frown when the stake appeared in her hand.  
  
"I should've known you couldn't stand this."  
  
Instinct screamed at him to move, but his heart knew better, and his mouth had other plans.   
  
He'd scarcely opened it to speak when the stake thrust into his chest.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"She's done it," Daeonira announced, running her fingers through the surface of her makeshift scrying pool. "The Winnowin is ours."  
  
The Master smiled. "Wonderful." He paused, considering. "And the vampire?"  
  
Daeonira had no need to ask which vampire he referred to; there was only one who was of any import to them. "Dispatched." She pronounced each syllable of the word with great satisfaction. "Just as I predicted."  
  
"You are truly an expert on the evils of the female heart," he accredited her. "I knew she was devoted to our cause, but I would never have suspected she would kill one so useful."  
  
"He was far too human for his own good." She sneered. "His love made him a great tool, but she is done using him now; he has served his purpose. Precise, efficient and focused. The Slayer is as fixated on what she wants from this as we are."  
  
"Yes. Pity we couldn't persuade her to stay on after the apocalypse."  
  
Daeonira stiffened. "She is fixated, but short-sighted. Anything beyond the apocalypse would fail to hold her attention."  
  
A sly smile stole over the Master's features. "Ah, Daeonira, you're jealous."  
  
She went still as stone and just as hard.  
  
"Don't worry, my dear," he soothed, walking up to her and taking one of her hands in his. He wrapped the other around her waist, lifted her to her feet and danced her in a small circle. "No one could ever replace you. We shall rule the world in blood and dance like this beneath the madness of the stars of a thousand worlds."  
  
"Soon," she murmured, fingers running down the uneven surface of his cheek reverently, dark talons scraping lightly over pale skin.  
  
"Soon," he agreed. He spun and dropped her into a dip, then leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers, sealing their agreement with a kiss.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
There was a moment of burning pressure, a splintered shard through Spike's chest that left him hunched and weak, blood rising up from his gullet and dribbling down his chin. His eyes never left hers though; deep blue widening, staring at her with a combination of child-like grief and innocence. After all this time, even after this, he still believed; couldn't accept the finality of her coldness, the depth of her hatred.  
  
"Damn," she whispered, voice guttural. "You moved." For a split second he thought he heard the ghost of regret rise up in her. "Guess I'll have to try again," she said with a grin.  
  
Spike grunted in pain as she yanked the stake from his chest. And then he was moving, turning out and away from her, duster flaring behind him. He couldn't have hurt more if she _had_ pierced his heart, and the blood that poured from him was his love for her, useless and stupid and mortal. Oh, how Drusilla would have laughed.   
  
He knew better than to stay and try to face her now. She'd kicked his ass soundly every time he'd squared off with her, and he wasn't about to try for a rematch while he was so badly wounded and she was insane.  
  
_Maybe logic prevails in the end, after all_, he thought bitterly.  
  
He twisted and spun as she came for him, survival instinct taking over, barely dodging the stake as he caught her beneath the chin with the back of his fist. She reeled backward away from him, stumbled but didn't quite fall, and he gave her one last longing look.  
  
Her eyes were the mouth of madness.  
  
The building bucked and writhed beneath his feet, sending him sprawling to the floor. Chunks of stone exploded all around him as they struck the ground, and he had a moment to realize what was happening.  
  
His last vision of Buffy was a cruel smile through the rising dust.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Donner stepped into an alcove, fingers creeping down over the pistol at his belt. Back pressed against cool stone, cold metal against his fingertips, he felt some of the heat of adrenaline leave him. He edged his head out past the lip of stone and cocked it, one eye fixed on the object of his hunt.  
  
Angel and Faith emerged from the inner chamber, the Slayer bantering almost casually with the vampire. He felt his lips curl into a derisive sneer and his fingers reflexively tightened on the gun. Watching her casual, almost belligerent body language, listening to her offhand almost arrogant banter, he felt a wave of resentment and hatred sweep through him like a brush fire. Damnable Slayer. Little more than a girl, everything depending on her and she had the nerve to be here, ignoring her duty to destroy the monsters below, and flirting with a _vampire_ of all things. She was an affront to the Council and Slayers throughout time. He was of the opinion that they should have killed her outright and begun the training of a new, more obedient Slayer, but the Council vote had come out against his favor.  
  
And the vampire. He was even more of an abomination. Oh, his fingers itched to plant a stake through the creature's heart, feel the cool blood slip down his wrists in the instant before death took the monster. He would grin into the ashes and dance in their wake. Soul or not, the only thing any vampire was worth was staking, and it was beyond him why the Council hadn't killed Angel when they'd had the chance. Why Buffy hadn't, why Faith hadn't. Were they all blind to the evil that resided in Angel? He could see it clearly in every movement, behind the guise of puppy dog eyes, lurking just beneath, barely held under control.  
  
His fingers gripped the handle of the gun, muscles coiling in anticipation. He could take them both right now. Kill the Slayer and disable the vampire to the point where staking would be a simple matter. Two gunshots, maybe three, and it would be all over. The Council would never know.  
  
"No way," Faith was saying with a grin, pausing in the corridor as she turned back on Angel. "Remember that time when we threw down in LA? I was totally kicking your ass."  
  
"I still won," Angel said with an enigmatic smile.  
  
"Only 'cause I let you," she shot back, still grinning.  
  
Angel paused. "I still won."  
  
"You know, I know what I said before, but when all this is over, I think I'm gonna have to jump your bones _and_ kick your ass into submission."  
  
"I wouldn't say no."  
  
Faith paused, seeming surprised. "To which one?"  
  
"Either one," he said after a moment. He moved closer to her, hands in his pockets.  
  
Faith stepped up to meet him, head tilting up and back to meet his eyes, lips dangerously close to his. "Tease," she accused.  
  
"Try me."  
  
She leaned up to kiss him, and Donner clenched the handle of his pistol in a death-grip.  
  
Angel hesitated, his mouth a fraction of an inch from hers. "Did you hear something?"  
  
Immediately they turned in Donner's direction. Donner felt his muscles clench, adrenaline running through him like liquid fire. Slowly, ever so slowly, he eased the pistol from its resting place, blinking away the steaming sweat that rolled down into his eyes.  
  
Angel took a slow step in Donner's direction. He knew the vampire hadn't seen him yet, or there wouldn't have been any hesitation. Still, he raised the gun, muzzle fixed between the vampire's eyes. The gun might not be high enough caliber to take Angel's head from his shoulders, but it was enough to disable him and scramble his brains for far longer than Donner would need to finish the job. The metal barrel shook slightly, and his finger twitched against the trigger.  
  
A dark form slammed into Angel, all snarling fury and fangs as it tore at him.  
  
Angel fell sideways then righted himself, discarding the vampire like an errant article of clothing. Then Faith was in motion, stake flashing out and into the vampire in the blink of an eye. It vanished in a hiss of dust and the two turned to each other.  
  
"And here I just thought you were trying to get out of the conversation," Faith said.  
  
Angel took one last, scouring look down the corridor, and a bead of sweat slipped down into Donner's eyes like a veil. He blinked once, twice, gun never wavering, eyes never leaving the vampire.   
  
At last Angel turned back to the Slayer. "We should get going." There was a moment of shared hesitation, as if they were reluctant to leave the tunnels, then two turned and walked away down the stone hall.  
  
Donner eased back into the alcove, lowering the gun to his side. His heart beat a thunderous rhythm in his chest and he swallowed, willing the adrenaline rush away. He wondered at the sensations, not having felt them for more than a decade. He hadn't hunted anything this dangerous in a long time. Demons, vampires, werewolves, and many other monstrosities, but nothing so cunning and intelligent as the Slayer and her vampire companion. Deplorable they might be, but they were truly worthy prey.  
  
So close. He could have killed them in the blink of an eye. Why hadn't he?  
  
Simple enough. They weren't the mission. _Buffy_ was the mission, and if he played his cards right, all he would probably have to do was wait and they'd lead him right to her. And even if they didn't… well, there was plenty of time for killing them afterward.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
By the time he'd scrambled from the collapsing building, ceiling falling in with a final, thundering crash, she had been gone. The car they'd come in had vanished and the sun had been rising like doom on the horizon.  
  
Enter Spike; high, dry and screwed again. He was getting really tired of this theme.  
  
"Hey!" An old woman screeched indignantly, shambling up on wobbly legs that had clearly seen better days. "That's my stuff!"  
  
"Sorry luv. I need this a bit more than you do." Spike pulled the thin blanket over his head and draped it around him like a cloak.  
  
"Get your own blanket! And get out of my alley!" the bag lady yelled, moving protectively toward the shopping cart he'd just raided. Spike's vision was partially obscured by the fuzzy material curling around his face, and he was so caught up in his final adjustments to his cover, brain already racing with possible plans, that he never saw her coming. The glass bottle she'd been collecting for recycle money smashed painfully into the back of his head.  
  
"Stupid bint!" he snarled, turning on her, and without realizing it, slipped into game face. The chip twinged with warning, but not hard enough to send him reeling in pain.  
  
The old woman took a long, wide-eyed look. "Monster!" she screamed. And then, to Spike's amazement, instead of dropping the glass and running for her life like any sane human would have, she raised the remains of the jagged bottle neck and tried to stab him with it.  
  
Spike gathered the blanket tightly around him and ran.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
The hole in his chest throbbed, and that was actually a good thing, because when it ached badly enough it kept random maudlin poetry about its origins from springing to mind. Often, it was even bad enough to keep him from slipping into self-loathing about the lump on the back of his skull where the bag lady had smashed it. That gave new meaning to adding insult to injury.   
  
Spike sighed and leaned against a stained brick alley wall, wishing the pain could drown out the smell that wafted from the blanket draped around his head, too.  
  
He'd already tried calling the Scoobies, and he'd gotten the answering machine at the Magic Box. He'd left them a message, but there was no telling where they'd gone, or when they'd be back. Likely they weren't checking the answering machine at this point, anyway. What the bloody hell was he going to do? It wasn't like he could call a cab or hop on a bus with the sun all bright and shiny in the sky. And he didn't know a single person in all of LA—  
  
Well, there was _one_ person.  
  
"Oh, bloody marvelous," he sputtered angrily. "This just keeps getting better." He shook his head. "No. There's got to be another way."  
  
But after a few minutes of serious debate, he knew there wasn't. Biting down bitterly on the inside of his cheek, he took off in search of a phone book.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
In the basement of the Magic Box, the trap door to the sewers rattled. Anya hastily adjusted her skirt and pushed Xander away, cursing under her breath. "Damn. They're back already."  
  
"Yay, more of the Faith and Angel show, my favorite." Xander sighed, reluctantly resigning himself.  
  
The trap door opened and Faith stepped out, Angel right behind her.  
  
"Hey guys," Faith said. She took a better look at them, walked forward a few steps and pushed her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. "Hope we're not interrupting anything," she added with a knowing grin.  
  
"Well you are," Anya said abruptly. "Xander and I were going to have brief, tension-relieving sex with our clothes on, and now you've ruined it."  
  
Angel's eyes widened and he stared fixedly at an empty corner of the room. Faith's brows rose and she snorted a laugh that was half disbelief, half approval.  
  
"Really?" She tilted her head to the side in an approximation of a nod. "Well." She stepped closer to Anya and clapped her gently on the shoulder. "I'll be sure to tell the others to give you an extra five minutes before they call you up." She dropped Anya a wink and craned her neck at Angel to follow her up the stairs.  
  
"Hey! It'll take a lot longer than five minutes!" Xander said loudly, pointing at the two of them as they walked up the stairs. The door shut and he turned back to Anya furiously. "Five minutes?"  
  
"Well, it's not enough time for sex. And the others will come looking for us any second now," Anya chimed in resentfully. Then something about the idea struck her. A spark of warmth ignited in her dark, beetle-like eyes, and she wound cajoling arms around her lover. "Do you remember the last time we were down here like this?"  
  
"Oh, you mean when we were looking for the dried bats wing and came across Giles' secret stash of special 'herbs'?" He used his finger to make air quotes and grinned. "That was funny."  
  
"No," she said impatiently, eyes pinning him almost accusingly. "The other time. The important time," she prompted.  
  
He looked blank for a moment, then memory hit him like lightning. "Oh! _That_ time. Right." He cleared his throat and glanced away from her, uncomfortable. "Well, I guess they're probably wondering where we are, huh?" he asked, sounding eager.  
  
Anya pulled from his arms. "Oh, that's right. Now that I want to talk about our relationship you want to run to Faith and Angel."  
  
"Anya, it could be important," he tried, already knowing he was fighting a losing battle.  
  
The warm spark in her eyes leaped into full blown fire. "You'd rather spend time with people you hate than talking about us."  
  
"Anya, that's not true. I—"  
  
"You never want to talk about our relationship. Every time it comes up there's something really important on TV, or you're too tired, or there's a new monster or a new Slayer or an apocalypse." She snorted and rolled her eyes dismissively. "You're just like all the men I've been reading about in those magazines!"  
  
"What? You mean Cosmo? Honey, somehow I don't think they were taking the relationship challenges of a Hellmouth into account."  
  
"Well they're right! You act like I'm some kind of dirty secret you can't tell your friends about."  
  
"Um, I think they already know about you, An."  
  
"You know what I mean! It's been almost a year and you still haven't told them we're engaged. No one's even seen my large but reasonably priced diamond ring."  
  
"An, honey," he blinked, looking bewildered, and damn him for being so good at it. Anya blinked back hot tears, hurt and anger barely held in check. "You know this isn't the time. This whole year hasn't been the time—"  
  
"It's never going to be the time, is it Xander?" She tilted her head from side to side, mimicking his tone. "Buffy's dead, Faith's our enemy, Faith's our new leader, Willow's under a lot of stress, Giles has a hangnail!" She broke off the tone and re-launched into anger. "What about me? What about _us_? I'm sick of it! There's never going to be a time, and if you can't make one—if you can't be… be proud enough of me to tell everyone how you feel about me, then maybe… maybe we shouldn't be together." Her lower lip trembled, but her face was firm with resolve, and she had no idea how beautiful she looked to him just then, annoyed as he was or not.  
  
"Anya, I promise I'll tell them all about it very soon. Just not right now, okay?" He took her hands in his, dark eyes imploring.  
  
She drew back and looked at him, one corner of her mouth quirking back in a thoughtful frown. It _was_ the first time he'd promised. "You promise?"  
  
"Absolutely," he said, kissing her again and driving all the doubts from her mind.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Angel shut the door behind them as they entered the shop, and every eye landed on them expectantly. Suddenly Faith wanted to turn and run back to the sewers.  
  
"Well?" Dawn asked.  
  
"Well, the bad guys seemed pretty sparse. And no sign of Buffy, or Spike." Faith tensed and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, bracing for impact.  
  
"So she wasn't there," Willow said, sounding triumphant.  
  
Faith fought the urge to cut her eyes at the witch. "No. I still think she might be around there somewhere though. We didn't get to go in too deep because there were still too many vampires crawling around." She cast a sideways glance at Angel, still slightly annoyed that he'd talked her out of having her way.  
  
He didn't return her gaze, but was obviously aware of it from the small smirk that curved his lips.  
  
"Then we should get going," Dawn said, rising from her seat.  
  
"In a moment, Dawn," Giles said and rose from the table, fingers still lingering on the pages of the book he'd been perusing. "We discovered something while you were gone, Faith."  
  
She shoved her hand in the pockets of her jeans and looked up at him with scarcely veiled trepidation. "This time it's really the recipe for how to bake a better ziti, right? Because I don't need any more prophecies, thanks."  
  
"Nothing quite so cataclysmic," he said with a faint smile. "Willow did some research on the coroner's files. You remember the Jane Doe body we discovered when looking for Blackwell?"  
  
"Not much chance of forgetting that one."  
  
"It seems there has been a string of these er, odd deaths over the course of the last eight months or so. All exactly the same circumstances of death and removal of organs."  
  
"Yeah? That's great Giles, but I don't see what it has to do with anything," she said impatiently.  
  
"It appears it has everything to do with everything." He picked the book up in his hands and showed her the page he'd been reading.  
  
She stared at it with a mixture of horror and incomprehension, not quite sure what she was seeing in the sketched lines of the drawing he displayed. "What… what _is_ that?"  
  
"It's Daeonira."  
  
"Then—then that's how she…" her face contorted as she worked through the emotions, then finally smoothed into hardness. "We know what she is."  
  
"Indeed."  
  
Her dark eyes were eager as she took a step toward him.  
  
"How do we kill her?"  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
The entry in the phone book had been easy enough to find. Walking up to the door though, that was turning out to be the hard part.  
  
Muttering curses under his breath, Spike hardened his resolve and slipped from the shade of the building's eaves, hurrying through the bright sunlight.  
  
Pausing beneath the porch awning, he took a deep breath, gritted his teeth and knocked on the door.  
  
It swung open and he leaned forward as far as the mystical barrier would allow. "_Don't_ shut the door. I know what this looks like—"  
  
"It looks like you're a walking ad for the 'Homeless Today' catalogue." The woman in the doorway paused, then wrinkled her nose. "And what is that smell? Ew."  
  
And here he'd thought she would be frightened.  
  
"Look, I need a favor."  
  
"You _need_ a make-over. Then again, I guess it's nothing a little stake to the heart wouldn't cure. Need help with _that_?"  
  
"Cordelia. Luv," he said with infinite patience, dripping condescension. "I don't have time for this. I've _got_ to get to Sunnydale."  
  
"Oh. Okay then. Bye!" She waved at him with a bright, patronizing smile and started to slam the door.  
  
He tried to wedge his foot in before it could shut and struck the mystical barrier. The impact shook his body, sent the blanket sliding slowly down over the crown of his head, and his skin began to hiss as an errant patch of sunlight fell on it.  
  
"Ow! Dammit!" he yelled, grabbing the thin material and pulling it back up over his head.  
  
Cordelia paused in utter fascination. "Wow. Your glory days are really gone, aren't they?"  
  
He rolled his eyes up at her with a look that could have killed, and spoke in slow, measured tones that made evident just how much restraint he was showing. "If I don't get to Sunnydale a whole lot of people are going to die."  
  
"And what? You're afraid you'll miss out on your quota of the body count?"  
  
He paused, taken aback, averted his eyes and hedged, "No." For the first time, the implications of what he was about to do set in.  
  
"Then what do _you_ have to do that's so important?"  
  
"I've got to—" He broke off, disgusted with himself. His face worked within the hood of the blanket, wincing and grimacing as he wrestled with the words. At last he sighed and turned his head to the side, defeated and disgusted.   
  
"I've got to save the bloody world."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Cordelia was still laughing.  
  
Spike seethed beneath his blanket with all the dignity he could muster. "You stupid bint. I'm not kidding."  
  
"Oh, I'm so sure," she said, covering her mouth as another giggle escaped her.  
  
"I'm serious. Buffy's got this magical thing that the Master is going to use to end the world and if I don't get back and let the others know what's happening so that Faith can stop her—"  
  
"Are you on drugs?" Cordelia asked, completely serious. "Buffy's dead. So is the Master. And I don't care what Angel says, I don't believe for a second that Faith—"  
  
"Believe it," Spike cut her off. "Look. Buffy's already got a good two hour head start on me. You know about the chip, know I can't hurt you, right? So why not just drive me there and see for yourself?"  
  
"Yeah. Like I haven't heard this one before. Next thing you know I'll be pregnant with demon spawn or tied up getting tortured in a warehouse somewhere." She paused, frowned. "Which, comparatively, really wouldn't be all that different."  
  
Spike rolled his eyes with helpless anger. "Are you going to give me a ride or not?"  
  
Cordelia stared at him as if he were crazy. "_Not_." She started to close the door and Spike found the words leaving his mouth before he'd even had a chance to think them through.  
  
"If no one stops her, everyone in Sunnydale will die. Including Angel."  
  
The door wavered. "_You're_ going to help save Angel?"  
  
He froze, mouth working, face twitching. With difficulty, he finally managed to spit out an answer. "Yes." His upper lip curled as if the word tasted horrible.  
  
He put a hand on his forehead, leaned against the doorframe and gave Cordelia a look of pure wounded pride.  
  
"Bloody _hell_ I can't believe I'm doing this."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
The battered sedan sped along the freeway toward the sunrise, Buffy humming behind its wheel as she drove. A pair of aviator sunglasses she'd found in the glove box were perched on her nose, blocking out the bright yellow glare of early morning. The Winnowin sat beside her on the passenger seat, still empty and dark, a simple ball of glass that did nothing except reflect the color and shape of its surroundings.   
  
Her humming was tuneless, a mindless, unconscious sound that she was completely unaware of. She felt good, strong. Happy even. The Winnowin was secure on the seat beside her and Spike had been left behind in the rubble of its prison. She was on her own, fate of the world resting in her hands as always, and there was no one to stop her from tipping the balance over once and for all.  
  
She could almost envision it; glass globe opening up in a ray of blinding light and swallowing everything whole. Actually, she had no idea what it was going to do at all, but she could envision it just the same. Everyone she knew would be dead, and she would be free again at long last.  
  
Something about the thought gave her pause, and there was a hesitation in her humming, as if a dark shadow had passed over her.  
  
What could be wrong with that?  
  
Nothing, she decided after a moment, reaching down and cranking up the radio. A slow, chilling smile spread over her face, and her eyes were blank behind the tinted lenses of her sunglasses. There was nothing wrong with that at all. In fact, that sounded just as right as rain.  
  
She could hardly wait.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Spike sighed and curled up tighter in the trunk of the car, wishing desperately that he could move his arms high enough to shield his ears from the never-ending procession of pop songs that thumped and pounded through his brain courtesy of the rear speakers just a foot or so away from his head, and hadn't he had enough humiliation today? Bad enough to be confined to the trunk—sodding Cordelia wouldn't paint her windows black no matter how much he begged—but far, far worse to be subjected to three hours of Britney Spears and company. That qualified as cruel and unusual punishment. Dissertations and sermons about Sylappha Demon Ram Gods would have been a welcome alternative.  
  
He beat against the rear wall of the trunk with one hand, and was rewarded by the sweet, sweet sound of decreased radio volume.  
  
"What?" Cordelia's voice was heavily muffled by the car's interior.  
  
"Turn it off," he yelled, motivated by sudden, desperate hope.  
  
"Turn it up?" Cordelia's muffled voice asked, and did he detect just the slightest bit of sarcasm around the edges? He thought he did. "Alrighty then." The volume zoomed up to easily twice what it had been before, piercing not only his eardrums but also his eye sockets with mind-rotting bubblegum pop. Hope flickered and died.  
  
And Demons of Gehenna save him—was she _singing_ _along_?  
  
Oh yeah. His day was complete. Anything that beat out screeching infants deserved a place in the Spike Hall of Infamy.  
  
He rolled his eyes so far back in his head that only the whites were visible and wondered if it were possible to will himself into unconsciousness.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Time passed in a seemingly endless blur of Top 40 dance hits. At last, mercifully, the car came to a stop and the music cut out in mid-mindless-lyric. And just when he made the mistake of thinking maybe he'd been saved, of course it was Angel who answered the door at the Magic Box, sniveling infant in his arms.  
  
"Cordelia?" Angel blinked, shocked.  
  
"Angel," she grinned and threw her arms around him in a big hug.  
  
"What—what are you doing here?"  
  
"She's with me," Spike said, hurrying through the doorway behind Cordelia.  
  
"Spike?" Angel did a double-take, then wrinkled his nose, suddenly distracted. "What is that _smell_?"  
  
"Ode de Homeless, ala Spike," Cordelia said with a nasty look at the blond vampire. "I'm gonna have to scrub for a month to get the smell out of my trunk."   
  
"Yeah, well the music scars on my brain will _never_ come off, so I'm thinking you got the better end of the deal."  
  
Abruptly she turned to Angel. "He said he was coming here to save the world. Is that true or can I stake him now?"  
  
"Of course it's true," Spike interrupted, cutting Cordelia a snide look in return.   
  
"Well…" Angel glanced back and forth between them uncertainly. "It _could_ be true," he admitted, reluctantly.  
  
"Where is everyone?" Spike asked, looking at Angel.  
  
"They're all out looking for Buffy."  
  
"Buffy really is alive?"  
  
Spike gave an abrupt, harsh laugh. "They're not going to find her unless they plan on taking on the Master, the mistress and all their little lemmings."  
  
"So she _is_ working with them?" Angel looked surprised. "Faith was right." Then his expression turned suspicious. "Wait. How do you know that?"  
  
"Because I was with her, you wanker."  
  
"Yeah, she tried to stake him and left him stranded in LA," Cordelia informed Angel with a smirk.  
  
"You were helping her?" Angel looked back to Spike, accusing.  
  
Spike clenched his jaw and stared off into the distance, silent for a long moment, expression stormy and barely contained.  
  
"Look, just get the others here and I'll explain everything."  
  
"You know where Buffy is?"  
  
"I'd bet my life on it."  
  
Angel considered him in silence for several seconds, then reached for the walkie talkie on the table.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"Spike's there?" Faith echoed into the walkie talkie, hoping the vast relief she felt didn't show in her voice. When Angel replied affirmatively, she let her arm fall and shook her head.  
  
"Faith?" Giles asked. Having noticed she was no longer behind him he'd backtracked his way across the park. "Is everything all right?"  
  
"Yeah," she looked up at him with eyes that didn't quite register his presence yet. She blinked, focusing. "Yeah. Spike's back, says he knows where Buffy is."  
  
"That's wonderful," Giles said, face lighting up. "I'll get the others."  
  
Thoughts and emotions swirled just beyond comprehension; a tangled ball of yarn with a bleached-blond center.   
  
She switched off the speaker and snapped the walkie talkie onto a belt loop.  
  
"Yeah. Wonderful."  
  
  



	18. Mortal Ground 2 Chapter 18: Reckoning

CHAPTER 18: RECKONING  
  
In her white lace  
You can clearly see the lady sadly looking.  
Saying that she'd take the blame  
For the crucifixion of her own domain.   
  
I get up, I get down,  
I get up, I get down.  
Two million people barely satisfy.  
Two hundred women watch one woman cry, too late.  
The eyes of honesty can achieve.  
How many millions do we deceive each day?  
  
            ~ Closer To The Edge III (I Get Up, I get Down), Yes  
______________________________________________  
  
"She called it the 'Winnowin'?" Giles asked, looking at Spike for confirmation.  
  
Spike shifted and looked annoyed, nerves jangling on the edge of impatience. "Right," he agreed tersely.  
  
"I don't recall ever hearing of such a thing," Giles went on, frowning as he reached for a book. "There _is_ something called the Venic Vas that sounds something like what you described—"   
  
"That's wonderful Rupert, but we really don't have time to pontificate."  
  
"I—I wasn't pontificating," Giles mumbled defensively.  
  
"Yet," Spike added.  
  
"So she staked you and left you to die?" Xander asked.  
  
Spike cut him a look that could have flayed skin from bone.  
  
"Gee, that must have been really humiliating," Xander went on with a shake of his head. Then he glanced up at Spike with fevered eyes. "Can you tell us that part again?"  
  
"We're wasting time," Spike snarled. "Were you listening a minute ago? Buffy's got her hands on the thing that's going to end the world and she's taking it straight to the Master. The lot of you can sit around and read books and drink tea all day, but I'd like to get there in time to save Buffy. Then, _if_ you like," he added with rancor, "I'll help you all throw yourselves into whatever hell the Master wants to bring upon the world since you're so bloody eager to let him do it."   
  
Willow eyed the vampire, sullen and surly, guilt over Buffy like a leaden weight in her stomach. "How do we know you're not lying?" she asked.   
  
Spike yanked his duster open with a look that screamed "duh" and pointed to the sizable hole in his chest.  
  
"Yeah, but you could have done that yourself," Anya put in. "It would be a nice touch to make us believe you so you could talk us into walking right into our enemies arms."  
  
Everyone paused as this idea sank in.  
  
Spike laughed. "Oh yeah. Staked myself through the chest, stole a homeless person's smelly blanket and begged Cordelia for a ride so she could torture me with pop music all the way back to Sunnydale. All part of my elaborate scheme to kill you all." He snorted and rolled his eyes.  
  
"I just can't believe that Buffy's… _evil_,"Willow said.  
  
"It does seem, ah, unlikely," Giles agreed.  
  
"Have you all heard a word I've said?" Spike stared at them in disbelief. "She's not evil. She's _confused_. The real Buffy is in there. I saw her. She's in there," he paused, voice faltering with a touch of emotion that he tried hard to squish back into its box. "She's in there and she's hurting and bloody miserable under all the crazy voices in her head." Everyone eyed him speculatively, and he grew indignant beneath their stares. "I don't really _care_ if you all believe me. All I know is we've got to help her. _You've_ got to help her."  
  
"Well, you _would_ say that if you were on her side," Anya said, all practicality.   
  
"Faith?" Giles asked, looking toward where the Slayer stood, arms folded, expression tense as she watched and listened.  
  
She stood there a moment longer, eyes not quite masking the confusing emotions that ran just beneath the surface, then pushed off from the wall and stalked across the store. "Spike. You, me, the back room."  
  
Spike snorted. "I don't think—"  
  
"Now," she demanded, turning on him. Her eyes were hard and cold. When he lifted his chin proudly in response, she sighed. "If you really want to help her, then we need to talk."  
  
Spike went with a surly look, stalking off like a cat that's had its fur rubbed the wrong way.  
  
Angel stepped up next to Faith, and there was an edge to his reserved body language that was slightly confused and a little unsettled. "What are you doing?"  
  
She took a moment to gather herself, to shift from glowering interrogator to something resembling a caring human being, and turned to him with a look that asked him to trust her. Dark eyes on dark, and she felt the pull of his magnetism even now, in this strained moment.   
  
"I'm gonna find out if he's telling the truth." And she wanted to touch him, make some small gesture, but she couldn't. Not with all the eyes watching them. She gave him one last faint smile, turned and pulled the door shut behind her.  
  
"Great," Xander said, leaning back in his seat and staring at the closed door. "And who's gonna make sure _you're_ telling the truth?"  
  
Everyone looked at him, saying nothing.  
  
"I'm serious. How did this happen?" he wondered aloud.  
  
Anya fixed him with a confused look. "It started when Buffy died, remember? Well, the first time she died," she amended with a shrug. "And then that Kendra girl came from Jamaica—"  
  
Xander put up his hands. "Rhetorical question, An." He glanced around at everyone else, gauging their reactions. "Does it make anyone else incredibly nervous that Faith and the Rebel Without a Clue are back there determining our fate? I mean, hello, psychopath, and gee, _blood-sucking_ psychopath."   
  
"Enough about Faith, Xander," Giles said tiredly. "You know as well as I do that she's more than proven herself."  
  
Xander lolled his head from side to side, not quite agreeing, not quite disagreeing. "Okay. But what about small, blond and snarky?" he inquired, raising his brows.  
  
"He hasn't let us down since the battle with Glory," Giles said and shrugged.  
  
"Exactly!" Xander exclaimed, pointing at Giles. When everyone only stared at him, he shifted uncomfortably.  
  
"What? Am I the only one who thinks that's suspicious?"  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *   
  
Faith shut the door and turned on Spike.  
  
"Miss me, Slayer?" he asked with a cocky slant to his brow.  
  
She folded her arms over her chest, in no way prepared or willing to answer that question. "Look Spike. This is huge. I know if you're working with Buffy there's no way we're gonna find out until it's too late. But I also know that if we go down and they've set an ambush for us, there's gonna be a bloodbath, and I swear to you, if that happens?" She stepped closer to him, eyes burning intently into his. "I _will_ survive. And I _will_ hunt you down."  
  
"Ooh, Slayer. You're turning me on," he said huskily, stepping even closer to her. When she didn't so much as blink, he snorted and rolled his eyes, turning his head away from her. "Look. I'm not working with Buffy. And you should know better."  
  
"I know you love her, Spike," Faith said, not giving an inch.  
  
He took a step backward, gaze going distant, and now his voice sounded contrite. "Yeah. I do. And… I was helping her for a while. Lost my mind, thought I finally had what I'd always wanted." He laughed bitterly. "I should've known better."  
  
She stared at him and shook her head in disbelief. "You mean after—" she broke off, patching the wounded tone in her voice, drawing herself up straight and hard. "You mean after… everything, you really just switched sides and helped her? I thought you were playing along to try to stop her!" she accused, far more angry than she should have been, and she realized then that she'd believed in him, perhaps much more than she'd known. The feeling of betrayal left a bitter taste in the back of her throat, and yet she couldn't help but wonder… was this how Buffy felt when she found out Faith had switched teams?  
  
Spike gazed at her with clear blue eyes that knew far more than they should have. "You know what it's like to want to be loved, don't you Slayer? Sometimes the lack of it hurts so much that it's like a hole right through you and you'll take whatever you can get to fill it." He raised his chin, still staring at her. "Yeah, I think you know."  
  
She dropped her gaze and gave a slow half-nod. "But that never made it right."  
  
"Tell me about it," he said with an offhand laugh. "All that and all I get is pointy stake by way of thanks. That's not right at all."  
  
She raised her eyes and stared at him curiously. "She really staked you and just took off after everything you did?"  
  
"Why is _everyone_ harping on that?" he demanded angrily.  
  
"Just…" She shrugged. "I can't imagine Buffy doing that."  
  
"Haven't you people got this one figured out yet? It's not _Buffy_. At least, what's in the driver's seat isn't. The real Buffy is down in there somewhere, but she's buried so deep I don't know if we'll ever see her again."  
  
"You're _sure_?"  
  
He sighed and lowered his head. "Come on. You think the real Buffy would sully herself with the likes of me?"  
  
"She's used you on missions before."  
  
"I'm not talking about missions," he said meaningfully.  
  
Faith hesitated as that sank in. "Oh. Wow. You're kidding? You two really--?"  
  
"Yeah," he replied testily. "What about you and the poof?" he threw back at her. "You two picking out curtains yet?"  
  
"We're, you know, taking it slow," she said indifferently. _Far_ too indifferently.  
  
He narrowed his eyes on her, gave her a lazy half-smirk. "I know you, luv. You don't take anything slow. Your shifter's stuck in overdrive and melted through. But I guess that whole soul thing puts a kink in things, huh?"  
  
"That's not it."  
  
"Oh really? Well what else could it be then, luv?" He tapped a finger against his chin in mock thought, blue eyes going wide and innocent. "Oh wait. I know. Could it be he's not in love with you?"  
  
"Fuck off, Spike," she snarled, turning for the door.  
  
"I know what that's like." His voice had transformed once again, sounding almost sympathetic, and suddenly Faith had a much clearer idea of what had gone down in LA. And God _damn_ him for being able to see inside her so easily. God _damn_ him for being able to manipulate her and pull her strings so easily. She could almost hear him shake his head. "It's a bitch, isn't it?"   
  
Arms pressed against her chest, she dug her fingers into her elbows, squeezing. "Yeah."  
  
"Don't know why we don't just ditch the lot of them and run off together."  
  
She almost smiled. "Because we're stubborn."  
  
"Don't forget bloody stupid. And buggered."  
  
And then she did smile.  
  
After a moment, he said seriously, "I'm not lying."  
  
"I know."  
  
"You ready, then?"  
  
"Let's do it," she said, reaching for the door knob.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *   
  
Faith stepped out into the main room, shifting and pensive.  
  
"Did you kill him?" Xander asked, sounding excited. Spike stepped out the door behind her and Xander's excitement deflated.  
  
"I think he's telling the truth." She went on before anyone else could interrupt. "And either way, we have to go down there. We have to check it out."  
  
Willow's stomach erupted in a flurry of butterflies. Her blood seemed to turn cold and she could feel it surge through every vein, every nerve. She did _not_ want to go down there. Didn't want to see Buffy like that, didn't want to… have to deal with everything she had wrought. The very thought made her physically sick. And yet… a voice seemed to coil around her mind, whispering words of reassurance, soothing her with sweet, dark caresses. The persistent voice she'd tried to drown with all her might that still whispered, maybe, just maybe, if she did go down there, she could put it all right.   
  
"When?" she asked, forcing the words out through numb lips.  
  
"I'm thinking now would be good. If Spike's right, if she's taking this thing straight to the Master, we don't have much time."  
  
"Wait," Xander spoke up, eyes flickering back and forth between all of them uncertainly. He licked his lips nervously, looking about two steps away from complete panic. "You mean this is it? The final showdown?"  
  
"Looks like," Faith said with a shrug that conveyed far more casualness than she actually felt.  
  
Everyone turned back to gathering their things or studying their books. "Wait," Xander said again, meeting everyone's eyes much more forcefully this time. "I have something I want to say first. Before we go. It's important."  
  
"Xander." Faith frowned at him, scrutinizing his face with eyes that tried hard not to appear nervous. "Do you know something?"  
  
"Well," he amended, looking chagrined. "It's not as important as the end of the world."  
  
"What is it, Xander?" Giles asked pulling his glasses from his face.  
  
Xander opened his mouth, closed it. Opened it again, closed it, bit down on his lower lip. He took a deep breath. "Anya and I... we're getting married."  
  
For a moment, Anya's eyes lit up with so much joy that Xander thought she might burst into tears right there.   
  
"Oh, Xander!"   
  
She ran to him and threw her arms around him and kissed him soundly. And then, she drew back, the look slowly draining from her, and annoyance replaced her overjoyed expression. Xander blinked, not quite believing what he was seeing and shook his head. "What—?"  
  
"Oh that's just great! Last time there was an apocalypse, you proposed to me. Now there's another one and you're finally brave enough to tell everyone. Maybe by the next time the world almost ends, if it doesn't this time, we'll actually get to have a wedding!"  
  
"But… but…"  
  
Anya stalked off down into the supply basement, and Xander looked around at everyone, feeling helpless. Everyone was shuffling, embarrassed or amused depending on the amount of their soulage. Xander snapped his slack jaw shut with a click, turned quickly and followed after her.  
  
"Well," Spike shoved his hands in the pockets of his duster, raised his brows and smirked in a familiar fashion that made Faith feel much more reassured about things than it rightfully should have.   
  
"Should we celebrate?"  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *   
  
Buffy pulled the thin cloth from the globe, cupping it gently in her hands. Everything was preternaturally quiet, every being around her stilled by the sight of it, and she could feel it's pull like a well of gravity, her eyes drawn to it, wistful and searching.  
  
"At last," the Master breathed, stepping forward. A smile lit up his demonic face like a thousand candles, like a child on Christmas morning. Gnarled fingers flickered out, talons brushing over glass, and Buffy winced, drawing the globe back a fraction of an inch.  
  
"Now, now, my dear," he said, cocking his head at her, frightening smile still in place. "Remember, I am the only one who can bring it to life. You _do_ want your apocalypse, don't you?"  
  
Slowly, reluctantly, Buffy held out the globe.  
  
"There," he whispered almost lovingly, then plucked the glass from her hands, feral eyes wide and reverent upon it. "There, there, my pretty," he whispered, running a covetous hand over it.  
  
"We have it," Daeonira said, sounding no less enamored.  
  
Buffy's eyes flicked back and forth between the two of them. "So now what?"  
  
"Now," the Master said, stepping toward the pedestal he'd prepared. He set the globe into the hollowed depression in the wood, spread his hands over the edge of the pedestal, leaned forward, and smiled. "Now we begin the ritual."  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *   
  
Giles stared at the basement door, shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. "Well, should we…?"  
  
Faith shook her head and cracked a ghost of a smile. "Nah, give them a few minutes."  
  
Everyone set off in separate directions, grabbing weapons, books, crucifixes and spell components.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *   
  
Angel turned to Cordelia, who still sat at the table, Connor cradled in her arms. "Cordy. I'm glad you're here. But you don't have to—"  
  
"Save it, Angel," she cut him off with a look. "Of course I do."  
  
He looked at her for a moment, then slowly smiled and nodded once.  
  
"Just tell me what you want me to do."  
  
"Well…" He hesitated a moment, feeling out of his element perhaps for the first time since he'd returned to Sunnydale. Of course Cordelia would expect him to be giving the orders. Faith brushed by them on her way to the back room for more weapons, and he waited for her to pass. Glancing around surreptitiously to make sure no one was paying attention—because he knew what was coming next—he answered. "Actually, it's going to be up to Faith."  
  
Cordelia arched a brow at him, looking unimpressed. "Really? Tell me, Angel, was Faith giving the orders _before_ you started macking on her, or did it start after that?"  
  
He blinked. "How did you—"  
  
"Oh please." Cordelia rolled her eyes. "The way you two look at each other? You might as well take out a tickertape announcement in Times Square."  
  
He let out a breath and let his gaze fall to the floor. He really hated how perceptive she could be sometimes. "It doesn't have anything to do with that."  
  
"I thought you were done with the Slayer thing, Angel. And here you are, making eyes at each other like some kind of Romeo and Juliet freak show. Are you _sure_ you know what you're doing?"  
  
He licked his lips, drew himself up and opened his mouth. "No," he answered and sighed, posture collapsing.  
  
Cordelia shook her head. "You know, for such a badass creature of the night, you're a complete sap. Throw in a Slayer and all logic goes right out the window."   
  
Angel shifted, uncomfortable. "Cordelia—"  
  
"Do you trust her?" Cordelia cut him off, looking up at him with glittering dark eyes that seemed to pierce right through his heart.  
  
"I do."  
  
"Well." Her eyes searched his a moment more, as if weighing the truth of what he'd said. "I guess that's good enough for me."  
  
"Thanks Cordy." He smiled at her warmly, feeling heartened.  
  
"But if she gets us all killed I'm so gonna say 'I told you so'."  
  
Angel chuckled, and it felt unexpectedly like relief.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *   
  
Willow searched the bookshelf again with furtive eyes, beginning to panic. "It was here. I know it was." She ran her hands over the row of books, as if that would somehow make the one she was looking for appear.  
  
Tara smiled, reached out and tapped the volume Willow had been looking for. "Right there, sweetie."  
  
"Oh." Willow stared for a moment, then sighed, shaking her head and chuckling. "Guess I'm a little worked up."  
  
Tara took Willow's hand and spun her lover toward her, slipping her arms around Willow's waist. "You are. I've never seen you like this." Tara tilted her head at Willow, hair falling over to cover one side of her face. She tossed it back and smiled uncertainly at Willow. "Are you okay?"  
  
"Yeah," Willow said, too brightly. Then she snorted and waved a hand through the air. "Of course. Not a problem. I'll just go down there and face Buffy while she's all 'Sibyl', tell her it's all my fault, and everything will be just dandy."  
  
"Oh, sweetie." Tara pulled Willow close and hugged her. "Don't be so hard on yourself. We all had a hand in what happened."  
  
"Yeah, but it was me that did the spell, me that talked you all into it. Me that thought I could handle the power and make it do what I wanted."  
  
"You didn't know," Tara said, pulling back to look at Willow. She cupped her lover's face gently in her hands, tranquil blue eyes pleading with Willow to understand. "We all make mistakes, sweetie."  
  
Willow buried her face in Tara's shoulder and wrapped her arms around her. A sob bubbled up from her belly and she shook her head, tears beginning to flow. "I just hope Buffy understands."  
  
Tara buried her hands in Willow's hair and held her tight.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *   
  
Dawn wandered up to where Spike stood, posture taut as he leaned against the counter, lips thinned with displeasure as he watched everyone scurry about, wasting even more time.  
  
The set of his face loosened a bit, like ice warming beneath the sun as he took notice of her, blue eyes settling on her curiously. "Hello, Bit."  
  
Dawn spun around and leaned against the counter too, unconsciously echoing his posture. Arms folded tight over her chest, she didn't look at him as she spoke. "What happened between you and Buffy?"  
  
He cut her a sidelong glance that was two parts sly, one part curiosity. "Nothing I'm going to tell _you_ about," he said, the words almost a question. What did she know?   
  
"You were… together, weren't you?" Dawn managed. Her voice trembled a bit, but ah, she was so brave, so much of her sister's strength in her.  
  
"Doesn't matter now, luv," he answered, not quite willing to lie to her.  
  
"Is she… was she…" She trailed off, shook her head, then looked up at him, almost pleading. "Do you think we'll be able to get her back?"  
  
Spike pressed his lips together, face solemn and almost blanching at the question. He wouldn't lie to her; he couldn't. "I don't know, pet. I don't know."  
  
She looked down at the ground, but it didn't matter. He could sense the sadness inside her.  
  
He slipped an arm around her shoulder, and after a moment she leaned into the embrace.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *   
  
"Anya, honey." Xander held up his hands, at a loss for how to deal with the teary-eyed woman in front of him. Hadn't he done the right thing? "I don't understand. I thought you _wanted_ me to tell them."   
  
"I _did_ want you to tell them," she exploded, tiny fists leaving her eyes to fly down to her sides.  
  
"Then why--?"  
  
"I wanted you to tell them because you wanted to, Xander." Her eyes were luminous, shining with tears. "Because you're proud of me, and happy. Not because there's another apocalypse."  
  
"Anya, I…" He searched for words, but they wouldn't come. He went to her, tried to put his arms around her.  
  
She spun away from him, eyes blazing anger. "No! No more, Xander. Every time we talk about this you either avoid me or start kissing me so I'll be quiet."  
  
He breathed in sharply and backed away, bewildered feelings giving way to anger. "Anya, I do love you. I am proud of you, and I do want to be with you, but if you don't believe me—"  
  
She turned back, all vulnerability and glittering tears again. "Oh, Xander. I do believe you." She moved toward him and he took and involuntary step backward as she reached out to touch him. Trembling fingers caressed his face, and he blinked, bewildered feelings taking over again. "But… I don't think you want this. I don't think you want to be married to me."  
  
He forgot to breathe for a moment. His first impulse was to answer automatically, _Anya, of course I do_, but she cut him off.   
  
"Think, Xander. Really think about it. Because every time I ask you, every time I bring it up, you never want to talk about it. You twitch like a," she shuddered, forced the words out. "Like a… bunny."  
  
And he thought about it. Visualized it. Imagined himself walking down the aisle, putting his hand in hers and saying I do, forever. And his knees grew watery, giving out like melted salt water taffy. He _had_ been putting it off for so long. Had avoided it every time she'd brought it up. Was he scared? Hell no, he thought, frowning with consternation. He was _terrified_.   
  
And then he imagined life without her, endless mornings of waking up without her at his side. Saw himself alone and inconsolable, and knew instantly that that wasn't he wanted either.  
  
"Anya," he said, stepped up and laced his fingers through hers, and for a wonder, she let him, doe brown eyes gazing into his with such love and hope that it tore his heart in two. "I love you. I do want to be with you. But you're right. I don't know if I'm ready to get married yet." Fresh tears of disbelief brimmed in her eyes, and he clenched her fingers tight in his. "But that doesn't mean I want you to go away. It just means I want to give it some time. I want to make sure I can support you, and, and… you know." He paused, sucked a breath through his teeth and bit the bullet. "Not end up like my father," he said finally, defeated.  
  
"You won't," she proclaimed, looking into his eyes. "Xander, I _know_ you won't."  
  
"But _I_ don't," he said, heart breaking and sinking like a leaden weight to his stomach.  
  
She stared at him for a moment, going down the long list of her expectations, considering all her options. Finally, she squeezed his hand and kissed him. "Then we'll find out. Together."  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *   
  
"Okay." Faith took a deep breath. "Here's the line-up. Giles, Willow, Tara, Angel—you're all with me. The rest of you—"  
  
"Like hell," Spike said, not giving her a chance to finish.  
  
"What he said," Xander agreed.  
  
"_The rest of you_," she began again, stressing the words and sending them a venomous look, "I need to stay topside in case something happens and downtown decides to start doing the Electric Slide again. People are gonna need help if that happens."  
  
"Sod the town. I'm going with you."  
  
"No. You're not."  
  
"Yes. I am."  
  
She considered brute force, then took one look at his face and shelved the idea. "Spike," her voice was noticeably softer. "If I can, you know I'll save her."  
  
He nodded, drew himself up. "Know you will. But I'm still going."  
  
"Spike—"  
  
"Besides," he said, each word pronounced slowly and with great sarcasm. "Don't think I'll be much help to the town when I'm on fire."  
  
She blinked, then glanced out the window. Only a few hours of daylight left, but still, he had a point.  
  
"You're wounded."  
  
"Don't care."  
  
"You slow us down, you get left behind," she said, eyes settling on him with weight.  
  
"Yeah. Cry me a river, Slayer," he snapped, impatient. "Can we _go_ now?"  
  
She gave him one last look up and down, then nodded. Slowly, she turned her attention to the rest of the room, knowing the battle here wasn't over yet. "The rest of you, I want here in case anything weird goes down." She held her hands up against the protests. "I can't use you. You don't have any powers, you don't get any play. This is the big leagues. We've got two ancient vampires, plus a hundred or more minions, an evil Buffy and the Council on our tail. I know you all want to be there. I know you all love Buffy. But you know we'll save her if we can."  
  
"I've been walking into danger for six years running," Xander said, tone acidic. "And no one is gonna keep me from going down there to help Buffy. Especially not you."  
  
"Oh, I could stop you," she said, eyes narrowing on him, faint, cold smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.  
  
"You know," Xander went on with mock-congeniality. "This is the same thing we went over and over with Buffy for five years. We do this because we want to, because it needs to be done. Because we care. Not because the Slayer tells us to. Buffy's our friend. We need to be there. And if it means I have to go up against you, then that's what I'll do."  
  
She raised her brows at him and regarded him with surprise, impressed. "Gotta say, Xander, I _am_ impressed. You've really grown a pair since the last time I saw you."   
  
"Always had 'em," he said, eyes intense. "You just weren't looking."  
  
_That's debatable_, she thought, but didn't say. Too many painful memories for both of them there. Slowly she folded her arms, looked at him and nodded. "All right then."   
  
Anya stepped forward and took Xander's hand. "I'm going too."  
  
"And me," Tara said.  
  
"Wouldn't have expected otherwise," Faith said coolly.  
  
Dawn stepped forward, all eager eyes and coltish legs, and Faith frowned.  
  
"But Dawn stays here with Cordelia and Connor," she added.  
  
At least everyone was in agreement about that. Except Dawn, of course.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *   
  
Faith peered deep into the darkness of the sewer tunnels, every sense fixed on the looming openings ahead. Her sharp ears caught every shuffle of the Scoobies footsteps not far behind, noted every echoing drip of water and caught its rhythm, listening for any sort of break in the strange lulling sounds. Buffy might think Spike was dead, but that didn't mean Daeonira and the Master were fools. They were likely to meet with some opposition long before they reached their destination, and if that happened—  
  
"You care about him, don't you?" Angel asked, jarring Faith from her thoughts.  
  
Focus scattering, she tried to read his expression in the dim glow stick light. Cloudy and broody as ever, chance of showers. "Who?"  
  
"Spike," he bit the word out as if it pained him to do so, then glanced immediately away, eyes fixing on the tunnel ahead of them.  
  
And despite herself, she had to grin. "Are you… jealous?"  
  
"What? No," he said quickly. "I just… well, there's a lot of chemistry there and I just…" He flopped a hand around vaguely, obviously uncomfortable as he tried to find the words. Her grin broadened, and she gifted him with a look of rapt attention that tried not to mock him too terribly much.   
  
"I know you two spent a lot of time together when I… left," he finished lamely. He glanced down at the ground, self-conscious. "Not that you shouldn't have…" He cleared his throat. "Done… anything." He tried to shrug and resumed staring at the ground.  
  
"Well…" she rolled the word around on her tongue, playing with it, her shoulders following suit. "I'm not gonna lie to you, Angel." She dipped her head to the side. "Spike saved my life a couple of times, and things did get a little hot and heavy."  
  
"Good," he nodded abruptly. "I mean, ah," he stammered when she stared at him. "Just, I'm glad you didn't stop living your life when I left."  
  
She let him hang there a moment more, enjoying the way he squirmed under her gaze. "We didn't sleep together."  
  
"Thank God," he muttered immediately, letting out a long breath.  
  
She grinned again. "You know, you're kinda cute when you're jealous."  
  
"I wasn't jealous."  
  
She arched a brow at him and smirked.  
  
"I _wasn't_."  
  
"You know," she said casually, giving him a playful sideways glance. "You and Spike got quite a bit of chemistry yourselves. I don't suppose you guys ever…"  
  
He stopped walking and cut a look back at her that could have frozen volcanoes.  
  
"Right. Well, a girl can dream," she said with a breezy sigh as she cut past him, leaving him to stare after her.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *   
  
"Una se ortum. Teguem aus de intamordurum."  
  
The Master recited the incantation solemnly, deformed fingers caressing the glass like a lover's skin. The unnatural quiet no longer pervaded his thoughts, though his voice alone broke the silence. He was lost to the moment, caught in the ritual.   
  
A tiny light flickered in the center of the globe, tremulous and gossamer pale, like butterfly wings.  
  
Electricity shot through his fingers, up his arms, tingling and warming cold-blooded flesh. Instantly, the world around him changed. The rock and earthen walls seemed to move with a life of their own, and he felt the roots of trees and metal alike twisting through them like veins. The faintest sound tickled the back of his mind; a pounding rhythm ancient as life itself, and he wondered what strange heart beat beneath.   
  
"Invicte ordus opum, vect ird oul ostere."   
  
A low humming rose from the globe, and the pale white light flickered again, brighter this time, like the tiny candle flames that burned all around him, and he went on, voice rising, emboldened by the promise it offered.   
  
"Ixnit ovus ortum! Melenum ges atremum!"  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *   
  
Everyone quieted as they descended deeper into the earth, the only sounds their breathing and the pounding of their hearts in their own ears.  
  
There was a feeling down here, a barely palpable electricity in the air that slid over their skin like razor wire. Everything was hushed, poised on the edge of expectation, the silence itself seeming to take on shape and form in their minds, creating a presence all its own.  
  
"You feel that?" Spike asked, voice low as he stepped up beside Faith.   
  
She paused in her walking, tilted her head and listened the overwhelming sounds of nothing, eyes roving the ceiling, the walls, the floor. Nothing. No one. Silent and empty as a tomb. Even the rats and the bugs lay silent as the dead. Her eyes skittered over the ceiling again, and an involuntary shiver ran up the length of her spine. She nodded, voice hushed as she replied. "I feel… something."  
  
"That'd be our little glass marble."  
  
"It's powerful," Angel commented, looking to Faith.  
  
"No getting anything past you, is there? Where were _you_ when I was telling my Dungeons and Dragons story gone wrong?" Spike asked with a snort.   
  
"Shh," Faith hissed, holding up a hand. Cocking her head to the side she listened, ignoring the faint sounds of shifting clothing behind her as the Scoobies waited impatiently. Slowly, she reached out with her upraised hand, fingers white and tiny against the dark backdrop of earth that surrounded them. She hesitated an instant, then placed her fingertips gently against the dirt. An instant later she snatched her hand away and stepped back, wiping her hand on her jeans as if she'd just touched something foul, eyes wide and disconcerted.  
  
"Faith?" Giles spoke up softly from behind her, and she could almost hear his frown. "What is it?"   
  
"The walls…" She stared at him, hand still held away from her body as if she didn't know what to do with it. "They're breathing."  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *   
  
Stone twinkled oddly in the candlelight, sharper, more alive, inviting touch, and the cavern seemed to sigh, shaking off its intractable surface and shuddering. The Master shook and shuddered with it, waves of faint light illuminating him, playing over his skin, dancing with secrets and whispering with promises. It coiled around his mind like a languid serpent, tongue flickering, teasing with mysteries.  
  
The Master closed his eyes and they rolled up in his head, fingers tensing against the glass.  
  
Daeonira watched him intently, growing nervous as long moments passed and nothing further happened. Trying to hide her anxiety from the followers who watched on, she took a step closer to him. "Master? What is it?"  
  
His eyes snapped open, brilliant feral red as they locked on her. "Someone knows. Someone comes."  
  
"To stop us?" she asked, surprised despite herself.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"The Slayer," she whispered, hands clenching into fists. "Where?"  
  
"The main entry tunnels. You must stop them. Don't let them touch me."  
  
"Of course," she said, almost offended that he would think otherwise. She nodded, drew herself up and backed away.  
  
It never occurred to her to wonder if it had been him speaking, or the globe.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *   
  
"We're getting close now," Faith said, voice low. She paused, shifted her crossbow to one side and wiped a denim-clad arm over her brow. Damn but it had gotten warm down here.  
  
"I'm having a thought," Xander spoke up from the back of the group, his voice as hushed as hers had been. Everyone hesitated, turned toward him as best they could in the rapidly tightening confines of the tunnel. "Spike said this thing turned on the power full force when he and Buffy went to get it… so why does the Master need a ritual to make it work?"  
  
Giles opened his mouth to speak, closed it. Faith frowned, considering. And Spike clenched his jaw, eyes narrowing with deprecating humor.  
  
"Maybe that was just the pre-show."  
  
"Y-you mean it may be even more powerful than you related to us?" Giles asked.  
  
"That's exactly what I mean."  
  
"Then what the hell does it do?" Faith growled, frustrated.  
  
"You'll never get to find out," came a voice, light, feminine and laced with malice.  
  
"Daeonira," Faith said, naming the voice as she spun around. She leveled her crossbow on the petite creature and closed one eye.  
  
Instantly vampires appeared from behind her and fanned out like a protective wave.  
  
"Shit," Faith cursed, swiveling her crossbow to take out the closest approaching vampire. It exploded into dust and Faith tossed the crossbow to Angel and took off like a bullet, threading her way through the small throng of vampires with kicks and punches that did less to hurt them than to move them out of the way.  
  
"Daeonira's mine!" she called back to the others. "You guys get the rest."  
  
The vampires parted and flowed around her like water, leaving her face to face with her former Watcher. Clear blue eyes, so deceptively human, looked Faith up and down as if calculating. Her hair was free now, falling in shimmering brown waves across her shoulders, but that was the only difference. Everything about her, her every movement, her every minute expression echoed of Beatrice, and Faith felt her heart swell.  
  
She dug her nails into her palms and ground her teeth. Last time she hasn't had a chance to think. Last time it had all been instinct and block and punch and parry and move your ass before you get killed, and oh, don't forget to save the world. This was different. This time it was slow and Technicolor and surround sound. The stakes weren't any less (and hey, too bad Slaying didn't pay by the pun), but they were less imminent, and Faith found herself caught off balance. This woman wasn't Beatrice; she _knew_ that in her mind, but it wasn't so easy to convince her heart. What if they were wrong? What if they'd made a mistake? What if her Watcher was just a run of the mill misguided human? Could she stand human blood on her hands again?   
  
"You've healed well," Daeonira said, inclining her head at Faith in approval. "This might even be a fair fight. I only took a taste of you last time Slayer; this time it ends in death."  
  
"Damned right it does," Faith said coldly, not letting her thoughts show on her face as she stepped back and dropped into stance.   
  
Daeonira's brows shot up and she smiled. "So eager? Very well then." She spread her arms and fell back into stance as well, feet crossing one another as they began to slowly circle each other.  
  
Not human, Faith insisted. You know she isn't. Remember what she did to you last time—humans don't move like that. And that was true, but she wished more than anything that the creature would quit toying with her and reveal its true face. That would make her job so much easier.   
  
"I had to cut my training short with you, but I think I still remember most of your moves," Daeonira said, mouth widening into a wolfish grin. She crouched lower as she moved, muscles coiling as she prepared for whatever strike she was about to launch.  
  
Behind her, Faith heard the clash of battle mixed with grunts of human effort and the explosion of vampiric dust. She heard Xander cry out once but she didn't turn. She didn't dare. She couldn't worry about them right now. She shut out the sounds, closed out the world and turned off her conscious mind.  
  
"What? No biting retort?" Daeonira inquired.  
  
Faith lifted her foot and spun in a high roundhouse kick, catching Daeonira across the jaw with her boot heel. Daeonira fell back, surprised and dazed, and Faith eyed the woman with cold fire as she reached inside her jacket and drew out a stake. "There's my retort." She lunged at the smaller woman, face dispassionate.   
  
Daeonira ducked under Faith's arm, pivoting and turning as she came up on the other side, catching Faith's wrist between her hands and twisting savagely. Faith hissed and fell down on one knee, following the wrenching arc of her arm, then punched upward with her free hand, catching Daeonira's already bruised jaw. The woman fell back, catching Faith's free hand around the wrist before it could strike her again. Both hands caught in awkward positions, Faith thrust her head forward and slammed into the other woman's skull with a resounding crack, flowers of incredible neon color flaring behind her eyes. In a split second she reversed her momentum, pulled on Daeonira's arms and hit the ground in a backward roll, tossing the woman over her head and slamming her to the ground. Faith yanked her wrists free, leaped to her feet, and turned, eyes searching frantically for the stake. Now was the time, all her instincts were screaming at her.  
  
No joy.  
  
Daeonira was on her feet in seconds, mouth split in a hungry grin as she wiped a thin line of blood from her chin. "Not bad."  
  
"I remember most of your moves, too," Faith said, face cool and impassive.  
  
"Really? Tell me then…" She came at Faith dead on, and the Slayer spun instinctively to the left, bringing her left fist around in a backhand that should have caught the woman across the face. _Should_ have.  
  
A strong arm caught her around the waist, barreling her into the tunnel wall face first and crushing the air from her lungs in a rushing gust. An instant later, something sharp ripped into her body, and she screamed. Blood poured from the middle of her back, and her flesh throbbed like white-hot fire.  
  
"Did you see that one coming?"  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *   
  
Her own stake. Her own. Fucking. Stake. Punched through her back, right through her guts and out her belly to scratch at the earthen walls. Had Spike felt this stupid?  
  
The world wavered, grayed out then came back into focus. The pain was still like burning iron in her gut, but at least she wasn't going to black out. That would have been worse.  
  
She slid down the wall, gasping for breath and hit the ground on her knees. She reached back, grasped the hilt of the stake and threw back her head, gritting her teeth and bracing herself. The fingernails of her free hand dug crescent shaped holes in her palm as the wood pulled free with a thick tearing sound, covering her hand with sticky blood, and she screamed against the barrier of her teeth. The world wavered again, and this time she thought she might really pass out, body still screaming with brilliant pain that pulsed in sickening waves. Panting in great, agonized gasps, she fell to a sitting position, turning to face her attacker and planting her back against the wall. She stared up at Daeonira with frightened eyes and flaring nostrils, one hand cupped protectively over the ragged hole in her belly.  
  
Despite the haze of her pain, everything was startlingly sharp and clear. The sounds of battle behind her had lessened, subsiding into faint grunts of exertion and the hissing rush of air as more vampires left this plane of existence. The earth itself seemed to hum all around her, a biorhythm of life, and she could almost feel the living things that squirmed within it, living, eating, reproducing with mindless abandon. There was a harmony in it that was distracting, lulling her, and even the trickling of her blood to the ground was a peaceful sound filled with images of waterfalls. Her eyelids fluttered, and the world warped and twisted around the edges of her vision.  
  
_Give in_, it whispered.  
  
She bit down on the side of her tongue hard, sudden pain filling her mouth with the thin taste of copper and shocking her awake. It was the Winnowin, had to be. Whatever the Master was doing, it was waking up, and it was determined not to be stopped.  
  
_Fuck you_, she answered with her mind.  
  
She pushed up from the ground, sliding up the wall and leaving a bloody trail in her wake. Weak, still short of breath, she set her eyes on Daeonira and grinned.  
  
"So brave," Daeonira mocked with a smirk. "It's been a long time since I tasted Slayer blood, but I still remember what it feels like. So bright and effervescent. It's like a powerful champagne running through your veins. So defiant, so unwilling to lay down and die even when it's way past time."  
  
"You gonna put me down?" Faith asked, still smiling. "Like to see you try."  
  
"You still don't understand, do you?" Daeonira inquired with an almost pleasant smile. "You came at me with a stake. Surely by now you know I'm no ordinary vampire. Or didn't your team do their homework?"  
  
Faith blinked, looking utterly confused.  
  
Daeonira gave a ghastly, inhuman grin. "No, I can see they didn't. You have no idea how to fight against me. No idea what I am. Watch then, child, and learn."  
  
Her head twisted violently to the side, voracious grin still in place, and there came a thick, wrenching sound of flesh, the tearing and snapping of tendons. As Faith watched, awestruck and horrified, Daeonira's head began to separate from her neck, tendons glistening sickly in the faint light. Mummified internal organs of dull green and black pulled free, still attached to her head like some kind of malignant cancer.  
  
There was an unspeakable sound of flesh ripping, of organs tearing free of their moorings, and Daeonira's body fell to the floor with an empty thump. Her head levitated in the hallway, organs streaming from it like some kind of grotesque holiday balloon, like something out of a bad horror movie, and Faith was dumbstruck by the unnaturalness of it, her mind retreating to some dim place where coherent thought vacationed in the Bahamas, blissfully free of such an unthinkable, horrific visage. Daeonira's black, bloody heart dangled like a lump of coal, and her desiccated lungs hung like shriveled beetles among an array of other dried organs, intestines trailing like dead snakes.  
  
"Isn't it beautiful?" Daeonira asked, her face still twisted in a hideous rictus grin. Her head flew at Faith, and the Slayer twisted away, thrashing against the sharp, seeking teeth. There was the brief sting of a pair of needles, and then pain flared like a blowtorch fired to life.   
  
The world ran away in shades of red and gray, the faint flickering of her heartbeat so low and soothing in her own ears. Blood passed from her in a slow, pulling flow, and it was almost seductive in its languid streaming. Her body felt light, soul twisting in the wind, tossed this way and that; a body caught in the hangman's noose, feet dangling inches from the ground, the slow choking of life.  
  
"Faith!"  
  
Angel's voice calling to her. So distant, so far away. He sounded so afraid. Couldn't he see that this was beautiful, that this was right? He was a vampire, he should know what it felt like to die.  
  
_"I'm not gonna make it easy for you."  
  
She throws herself against Angel screaming, "I'm evil! I'm bad! I'm evil! Do you hear me? I'm bad! Angel, I'm bad!"  
  
"Angel please, just do it. Just do it. Just kill me. Just kill me.""  
  
Angel wraps his arms around her shoulders and pulls her against him. She over balances them and they sink to their knees, Angel still holding her as she cries.  
  
"Shh. It's all right. It's okay. I'm here. I'm right here. Shh."  
  
_The memory flashed before her eyes; torrents of rain, dark alley, blood and pain and fear, self-hatred so thick she wants to cut into it with a knife, cut out its heart and scream as she holds it up to the sky, triumphant.  
  
_You really want to die?_ A voice spoke up in the back of her mind, and it sounded like steel, like strength and comfort and home and all the things she'd always wished she'd had. Things that would have given her life meaning, things that everyone else seemed to acquire with such ease. She wanted them, she longed for them, and without them, what was she? A girl on her seventh birthday, wishing for cake, wishing for friends. Alone. Nothing. Empty. A murderer, a hijacker of lives she wished were her own. She deserved this, she had earned it; she'd done her best, and she was so tired of fighting. So tired of struggling. She wanted it to be over.   
  
_Giles tilts his head at her, regarding her with sadness and the scales of justice in his mind. "No one said this would be easy, Faith. You've made mistakes in your past and you're going to have to face them."   
  
"And what do I do when my 'mistakes' decide they're mad as hell and they're not gonna take it anymore? What about when they decide to take me out?"  
  
"You do the best you can."  
  
"Funny, you make it sound easy".  
  
"It isn't," he agrees. "But anything worth doing seldom is."  
  
I know what I am_, she thought sluggishly, words swimming incoherently through her mind.  
  
_"Won't know **what** you're made of 'til you belly up and give it a try," Spike said. "All well and good to sit around and feel sorry for yourself—but when the time comes, you'd better be ready to defend what you care about. Or live with the consequences."   
  
_Consequences. Buffy. The world. So much rested on her shoulders, and she buckled beneath the weight. It was so much to ask, too much. One girl against all the world, one girl to set the balance right. A girl who had no sense of right and wrong, who would rather grab whatever she could from the world and run with it, leaving repercussions for another day, if ever. It was familiar, easy. So easy to backslide, to escape into the embrace of that old life like sliding into an old lover's arms.   
  
_Anything worth doing isn't easy.  
  
I don't want this.  
  
You have a choice. Make it._  
  
A primal cry of anguish rose up in her, building from her stomach and exploding through her diaphragm.  
  
She reached out with trembling hands covered in blood, and grabbed Daeonira by the hair, holding the hideous head tight against her throat. She could almost feel those lips broaden with a smile against her skin, and she smiled in return. Her other hand reached out and up, grabbing the head just beneath the severed flesh of its neck. Tangling her fingers in the cords, she pulled, and something gave with a sickening snap.  
  
Daeonira reared back and screamed, teeth tearing from Faith's neck in a riot of pain.  
  
"I know what you are", she snarled, yanking the disembodied head in front of her face. "Pennangalan. Western vampire. Have to detach from your body to feed. Damn good plan, leaving your body behind at the scene of the crime, making me think my Watcher was dead." Faith paused, coughed, and couldn't tell if the blood she tasted was from her tongue or from the well of her body. Didn't matter anyway. "Shouldn't have left those stitched up bodies laying around though," Faith said with a grin. "Gave you away. Guess you didn't want to make any competition out of the girls you fed on, huh?"  
  
Daeonira's bright blue eyes widened with true fear, and, her face painted red with the crimson of Faith's blood, she lunged at the Slayer with wide open fangs.  
  
Faith yanked the head backward with a violent tug. Daeonira screamed again in pain, and to Faith it was the sound of music, sunshine and hills and Julie Andrews. "Know what else I know about you?" Her mouth curled in an emotionless smile, eyes empty and satisfied. "I know how to kill you."   
  
Daeonira panicked, head thrusting upward like a bullet, and Faith wrenched against the hair tangled in her hand.  
  
"No good."  
  
She squeezed the thin cord that held Daeonira's internal organs with one hand, feeling skin that was too thin and strangely cold crush beneath her grip, and tightened her other hand in the woman's hair, pulling down against the grotesque display with all her might, and yanking the woman's head simultaneously upward.  
  
Like a baby from the placenta, they slid apart, thin cord tugging free her esophagus, what remained of her spinal cord, and the shriveled, black mass of her brain. Faith looked into the head's dying eyes, wanting to watch the light fade from their sea-blue depths. The blood-stained lips quivered, tried to move, tried to form words that painted bloody ideograms of what she wanted to do to Faith.   
  
"Cat got your tongue? Oh." She paused, then held the mess of organs up before the head's frantic eyes. "No, wait. _I_ do."  
  
Faith dropped the shriveled remains of the body to the floor. With slow, almost disinterested study, she planted her foot in the center of the brain that lay curled like a fat, black spider, and twisted her booted heel. It split apart like an overcooked turkey, thin outer skin releasing the fragile pulpy matter within. The light went out in Daeonira's eyes and they became flat coins, empty of life or retort. The head turned to dust Faith's hand, body and organs vanishing.  
  
"Bitch," Faith whispered. Then her foot slid out from under her and she fell backward against the wall, boneless and drained, collapsing in a heap on the floor.  
  



	19. Mortal Ground 2 Chapter 19: The Solid T...

CHAPTER 19: The Solid Time of Change  
  
A seasoned witch could call you from the depths of your disgrace  
And rearrange your liver to the solid mental grace  
And achieve it all with music that came quickly from afar  
Then taste the fruit of man recorded losing all against the hour  
And assessing points to nowhere, leading every single one  
  
            ~ Closer To The Edge I (The Solid Time of Change), Yes  
  
In charge of who is there in charge of me  
Do I look on blindly and say I see the way?  
The truth is written all along the page  
How old will I be before I come of age for you?  
I get up, I get down  
  
            ~ Closer To The Edge III (I Get Up, I get Down), Yes  
  
______________________________________________  
  
  
He felt her die, felt the dark star of existence flare and then wink out, crushed by the Slayer's hands.  
  
"Daeonira!" the Master howled, head thrown back in anguish. His fingers left the glass and clenched the wooden edges of the stand so hard that it cracked, splintered fragments breaking free in his hands.  
  
The vampires gathered in the cave shuffled nervously and stared at each other, wondering what they should do.  
  
Tears streamed down the Master's face and he shook his head, inconsolable in his grief. "For centuries she was my unholy bride, and she is not here to witness my moment of triumph. _I will have the Slayer's head_!" he raged, fists clenching and snapping the fragments of wood in his hands.  
  
_Yes, you will_, whispered the insidious voice in his mind. _But first you must awaken me._  
  
"Daeonira," the Master murmured again.  
  
_Forget her_, the voice commanded, and slowly, the Master stilled, hands crawling back up onto the glass as if of their own accord.  
  
"Agna imish telgaterone, talula," he intoned, and the tears still trailing down his face were lit with pearl-white incandescence.  
  
And, unseen and unnoticed by everyone, Buffy began to back away from the platform.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"Faith?"  
  
Angel's voice called to her beyond the red and black pain-fogged cloud of her mind. How long had she been out? Couldn't have been more than a few seconds. After all this experience with getting knocked out she was starting to become an expert at it. She moved her mouth, tried to speak; tasted blood, licked her lips and tried again.  
  
"What?" The word came out clear, sullen and snappish. Good to know that at least her attitude was still in full operational mode.  
  
She could hear Angel's sigh of relief, and then there were hands, blessedly cool hands touching her. Fingers touched the wounds on her throat gently, and she hissed, yanking away.  
  
"I have to bandage it," he said, sounding apologetic.  
  
"Oh my God." Xander's voice trailed off as it moved closer, echoing off the walls, sounding pale and vaguely sick. "That was the grossest thing I've ever seen."  
  
There was a pause, and then Anya spoke, and Faith could hear the shrug in her voice. "I've seen worse. Done worse in fact. There was this guy in the—"  
  
"Anya, do hush," Giles cut in. "Angel, is she all right?"  
  
Faith blinked, opened her eyes. "Fine. You guys okay?"  
  
"Everyone's fine," Angel answered testily, as if annoyed that she was concerning herself. "Now be quiet and hold still."  
  
She let her eyes droop shut again, taking advantage of the time to rest. Wouldn't be long before she had to get up again. She heard the faint sound of material ripping and tried not to wince as Angel tilted her head forward, wrapping the gauzy cloth around her neck. Another minute or two, and he'd bound the wound in her back, and she was starting to feel better. She'd lost a lot of blood, but she was going to make it. She had to.  
  
"Better?" Angel asked, and she nodded, opening her eyes again.  
  
"Are you able to…?" Giles trailed off, as if he didn't want to embarrass her by asking the full question.  
  
"Guess I'd better be, huh?" she asked with a slightly strangled laugh that made the holes in her throat tingle painfully.  
  
"Faith." Angel looked at her with that steady, stalwart understanding he always had so readily available, and she fought the urge to slap him. "You don't have to go on if you can't."  
  
How dare he look at her with those warm, dark, intense eyes and say such a thing? How dare he suggest that she lay back down after fighting so hard to get back up? And something of what she was thinking must have shown in her face, because he suddenly leaned back from her, moving his face out of range of her fists.  
  
"Yes she does," Spike answered Angel, voice low, and for a wonder, lacking in mockery. Faith wondered if it was for the first time in history.  
  
Angel turned and cut him a venomous look.  
  
"Come on, Sunshine," Spike said, slipping back into snide mode. "We need her to do this, and she knows it. So do you. So stop playing Florence Nightingale and tell her to get up."  
  
Angel's jaw twisted with a stinging retort, but with a visible effort he reined it in and turned back to Faith, eyes resentful but resigned.  
  
"I just don't want you to…" his voice was low, quiet and husky, and he didn't quite dare finish his thought.  
  
She gave a wan smile and lifted her bloody hand to his face, fingers shaky as they skimmed his cheek. "I know." And then she was pushing up from the floor determinedly, before Spike could snort or Xander could make a scathing remark, before anyone else could ask if she was all right or what came next. She leaned away from the wall experimentally, seeing if her legs would hold her, and after swaying drunkenly for a moment, they did.  
  
"All right. Let's finish this."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"Ceremonus, ignat esh bal," the Master intoned, lifting his hands from the globe. "Vashnal! Vashnal!" he commanded, raising his arms and spreading them wide as if calling home lightning from the sky.  
  
Without hesitation, without fanfare, Faith and the Scoobies reached the mouth of the cavern and followed the walkway down. The vampires in front of them were enraptured, backs turned, attention caught by the mystical globe on the pedestal. Not a single one noticed as they approached.  
  
"Don't you bad guys ever get bored of this crap?" Faith asked in a wry tone of voice. "Big ceremony, arms in the sky, end of the world." One by one, the vampires began to turn, hissing their displeasure. "I know I do," she added, punching one in the face as she stepped forward.  
  
The Master hesitated, glanced down at the globe and yelled at it impatiently, almost imploring. "Vashnal!"  
  
"Aw, what's the matter, Master? Your little toy broken?" Faith cooed. "What a shame."  
  
The vampires pulled free of their paralysis, launching themselves at the Scoobies in a blinding rush of fangs and fists. For a few moments, the world swirled with black robes and the smell of vampire dust, resonated with the keening wails of the undead wounded. For Faith it passed in a blur, and all the creatures around her seemed to move in slow motion, giving her plenty of time to move and kick and punch and stake. Easy, so easy, instincts guiding her through the paces as if this were no more than training exercise. And maybe there was something to be said for being badly wounded. There was nothing else like it for sharpening your battle focus.  
  
It seemed to go on forever, bodies turning, kicking, swinging weapons, a macabre dance that drew blood and swirled ashes, and it seemed their foes were innumerable. Willow chanted and five vampires burst into flame. Faith turned and stabbed and thrust and took three more. Giles spun and took the head of another with his sword. Anya threw holy water and a vampire's face melted in a scream of agony. One by one, the vampires fell before them until only a few remained, running for their lives or running forward to meet their death against blade or stake.  
  
And then it was over, and the Scoobies stood among the dust of the dead, faces solemn beneath the blood and smears of grime.  
  
Faith sheathed her stake, turned, dusted off her hands and grinned at the Master. "Too bad _you_ can't run away, huh? Guess who's next?"  
  
"Sorry Faith," Buffy said, emerging from the shadows next to the platform. "I can't let you do that."  
  
The Master smiled and flexed his grip against the glass.  
  
"Buffy."  
  
There was a simultaneous intake of sharp breath as everyone else saw her for the first time.  
  
Gray-green eyes narrowed on them all. "I see you brought everyone to the party." She paused, reassessed, then smiled. "Except, wait. No little sister. Funny how last time she was the key and this time it's big sister who's the instrument. Kind of ironic, don't you think?" She paused. "That is ironic, right? Ever since Alanis Morrisette, I get confused."  
  
Everyone simply stared, uncomprehending, and Spike stepped forward, bringing his hands together in a slow clap. "Good show, luv. Keep talking, keep 'em dazzled, maybe they won't notice the little girl behind the curtain, eh?"  
  
"Spike," Buffy greeted, and her tone grated with mockery. "Thought you were dead."  
  
"Technically," he said, taking another step forward, all leather coat and arrogance, then stopped and stared up at her. "I am. But you're not. Not yet."  
  
"Working on it."  
  
"I know it's not what you want."  
  
"Oh, come on." She rolled her eyes. "You're not going to give me that routine again, are you?"  
  
"He's right, Buffy," Giles spoke up gently. "It doesn't have to be this way. We can help you."  
  
"Really?" She arched an icy brow at him. "And who's going to do that? Willow?" Her eyes cut to the witch, fixed on her with intense hatred. "I think she's already helped me enough, don't you?"  
  
Willow's face crumpled, and she struggled to speak.  
  
"Oh no, don't say anything," Buffy mocked. "You'll ruin the moment."  
  
"Buffy, think about what you're doing," Angel said, taking a step forward.  
  
"Angel." For just a moment her voice wavered and the hatred flickered in her eyes, on the verge of winking out. Then her expression hardened again. "What are _you_ doing here? Don't you have important things to do out in LA? You know, as far away from Sunnydale and _me _as you can possibly get?"  
  
He flinched, taking the barb with a fleeting expression of guilt. "Buffy, I came because I care."  
  
"Really?" Her eyes flashed. "Couldn't tell from the way your back was turned to me all these years."  
  
Faith cut Angel a furtive glance, looked back to Buffy and took another step forward. "Buffy—"  
  
"Shut up," she snapped at them all, emotion on the edge of boiling over. She was furious, lividly angry, and somehow, it seemed, on the verge of tears. "You brought me back from the dead. You left me stuck inside my grave. You're all responsible for everything that's happened. And now you're here now because you care _so much_? You're here to save me from myself?" She gave a shaky, bitter laugh. "If it weren't for you, I wouldn't _be here_ in the first place."  
  
They all shifted uncomfortably, guilt and blame settling on their shoulders like a leaden weight. Perhaps they would have spoken, found the words to reach her. Pushed past their guilt and woven the broken threads of trust and love back together. They might have stopped things then and there, given a moment to recover.  
  
They weren't spared one.  
  
From behind them all there came a multitude of sharp clicks so rapid they merged into one quick sound. Buffy lifted her eyes and Faith spun around, looking up as well.  
  
"That's far enough, Slayer," Donner sneered from atop the ledge, dim torch light from the entry room outlining him. Council operatives spread out across the walkway in a black wave, covering the ledge and nearly spilling from its edge. Black metal gleamed in the faint torchlight, each reflection one of dozens of guns cocked and aimed at them.  
  
"Who the hell is this guy?" Buffy asked, irritated to be interrupted. "Grand Moff Tarkin Jr.?"  
  
"Donner," Giles spat the word, as if to rid himself of its taste.  
  
Faith drew herself up and shook her head, squinting up at him. "We still have twelve hours on the clock."  
  
"I got tired of waiting," Donner said with a whimsical smile.  
  
"Well in case you hadn't noticed, soldier boy, we've got a little bit of a situation here. If you can hold on to your testosterone, I'll be happy to beat the crap out of you _after_ I save the world. Or maybe you can actually do something useful and give us a hand."  
  
"Not likely, Slayer. We're here for Buffy; not the Master, not for you. I don't need an excuse to kill you all, but since I know you're too stupid to give up, anyway, I'll give you the two opportunities to stand aside as dictated by Council protocol." He smiled as if conferring some great favor upon them, then raised his chin, manner growing haughty and officious. "Step aside now, Slayer, and you'll remain an operative of the Council in good standing."  
  
"Never gonna happen."  
  
Donner smiled again slightly, and continued, the tone of his voice evincing just how much pleasure he was taking from going through the motions. He tightened his grip on his own gun and aimed it at her, looking casually down its length. "Step aside Slayer, or I will denounce you as a member of the Council and take all your lives as payment for your betrayal."  
  
Fingers tightened against triggers, all sweat and itching palms. The very air around them crackled with tension as Faith paused.  
  
The room rippled suddenly, rock and stone bubbling as if caught in a heat wave, and Willow glanced around uneasily, hackles on the back of her neck rising. The quality of light had shifted just a little, and she could feel electricity in the air, dancing over her skin with tiny, tingling jolts that made her hair stand on end. She looked quickly to the others to see if they had noticed, but everyone still stared at the Council Operatives as if mesmerized.  
  
Faith appeared to think for a moment, face scrunched in an exaggerated frown. The expression dropped from her face, becoming placidly cold. "No."  
  
"A pity. For you." He shook his head and smiled as if satisfied. "Open fire."  
  
The world erupted in the flash and whine of flying bullets, and for Willow everything seemed to slow down and speed up at the same time. She could see everything, knew where each bullet was, where it was directed, what it was about to hit. She opened her mouth to scream and time caught up again, everyone scattering in opposite directions, ducking behind stalagmites, throwing themselves to the floor. But Willow's eyes were focused on one place, wide, round and screaming.  
  
A bullet caught Xander in the chest and skewered him, passing through his back in a cloud of red before lodging in the stone of the floor. He stood, open mouthed and wide eyed, one hand pressed against his chest, and then fell to the floor without a word; a silent, somber tree, eyes glassy and forever stilled.  
  
Willow's scream had gone silent in her ears though her throat went on until it was raw and cracked, and her world narrowed to the emptiness of his eyes, the pool of blood that slowly seeped from beneath his body. She blinked back tears and—  
  
Light flashed.  
  
"Step aside Slayer, or I will denounce you as a member of the Council and take all your lives as payment for your betrayal," Donner said from atop the ledge.  
  
Willow turned in a quick circle, open-mouthed with shock as she tried to wrap her mind around everything she'd just seen and experienced. She could still see Xander's blank, empty face in her mind's eye. There were still tears in her eyes. How could this—  
  
Her eyes fell on the Winnowin, which sat in its pedestal between the Master's hands and blinked along merrily like some sort of indicator light.  
  
And then she knew.  
  
Flash.  
  
"Faith! No!" she shouted. "They'll kill us all!"  
  
Faith turned toward Willow, frowning, dark eyes questioning. "How do you—"  
  
A blurring movement behind Faith caught Willow's attention, and she screamed, reaching up and out with her magic, too late, too late. The dagger hit one of the gunmen in the chest with a solid thump, and she could almost hear Buffy's grin of satisfaction.  
  
"Well if Faith doesn't have the balls to settle this, I do."  
  
The gunman teetered, then fell from the ledge, fingers pressing down reflexively on the trigger as he tumbled through the air. A spray of bullets erupted, and once again time seemed to slow. Every nerve screaming, tears of desperation in her eyes, Willow leaped, throwing herself against Xander and shoving him to the floor.  
  
Her body relaxed as she became aware of Xander breathing beneath her, and she lifted her head, smiling down into wide, uncomprehending eyes. Alive. She had saved him.  
  
"Willow?"  
  
She turned and looked up.  
  
Tara stood there, looking at the blood on her hand in confusion. A tiny ragged hole was torn through her chest, and blood—too much blood—was pouring from the wound, turning the light blue of her sweater an unnatural violet.  
  
Willow screamed. The world blurred through outraged tears and she blinked against them—  
  
Flash.  
  
"Step aside Slayer, or I will denounce you as a member of the Council and take your life as payment for your betrayal," Donner was saying.  
  
_What. The. Fuck?  
  
_The world spun sickeningly, and she clenched her teeth against the rebellion of her stomach, fighting desperately to hold against the wave of nausea. Her mind was suddenly a slippery place, filled with a thousand images of death and destruction, all overlaid and merging together in a whirlpool of despair that tugged at her heart, clutched at her soul and threatened to pull her under. She pressed her hands against her forehead, panted in deep, gasping breaths and pushed against the visions with all her might. They scattered and dispersed, and the world slowly slid back into place. She gripped hard against the thin cord of reality, clinging to it, and her thoughts swirled in chaos.   
  
Something bad was happening, was going to happen, and she knew she could stop it if she only had a second to figure it out.  
  
"Well, isn't this a pretty picture?" the Master asked.  
  
From amidst the cluster of operatives, a single wooden crossbow bolt flew. Perhaps from an unsteady hand, perhaps by someone who wanted to be a hero despite Donner's proclamations. It arced across the cavern, a sudden bolt of hope launched into the world, and Willow felt her heart rise. If it struck its mark, this could all be over. It could—  
  
The Master reached out and plucked the bolt from the air before it could touch him.  
  
"He knows that trick." Buffy smiled at the soldiers.  
  
Willow's heart sank back down into her stomach, and reality struck her like a blow to the chest as she looked to Faith. The Slayer twisted on the edge of indecision, knowing nothing of what Willow had seen, dark eyes flickering around at the group.  
  
_They're going to kill you all_, whispered a faint voice inside Willow's mind. _I have shown you what will be._   
  
And this time she knew what she was seeing was real. What she had seen before were only flashes of possibility, things that might have been. A myriad of chances and odds, each one spun out into its own separate string of events. And not a single one of them was going to leave them alive.  
  
_Unless you stop them._  
  
The Winnowin—and she had no doubt that it was the source of the voice in her mind—was alive. It was alive and it would do anything to stay that way. It would lie.  
  
_I would. But I haven't.  
_  
Willow raised her head, face still streaming tears of confusion and loss that never happened. She saw Donner lift his hand, saw him raise two fingers, watched as several of the guns around him turned to point at Buffy. She could see the beads of sweat that rolled down each man's face, could almost hear the gridlock of their teeth as they focused, could almost feel the twitch of their trigger fingers as they prepared to fire.  
  
"Go! Move!" Faith shouted. "Everyone get under cover."  
  
Triggers clicked, bullets locked into their chambers, and the sound of a hundred tiny explosions assaulted Willows ears, drawn out in the slow motion of thunder.  
  
"No." It was a quiet declaration, unassuming, and yet somehow a command. She held up her hands and pushed with all her might, her body surging like a conduit as she pulled energy from the world around her.  
  
The bullets slowed, not quite free of their chambers yet, and Willow felt them struggle, pressing against her power with incredible velocity. She ground her teeth and shoved forward with magical force, and felt them retreat a fraction of an inch. Seconds split into infinite moments in time, her friends moving, reacting with movements so slow and jerky they might have been done using stop motion photography. The bullets surged, bodies in motion that would not be denied, and she knew she wasn't going to have enough power. They were going to slip from her grasp and fly into her friends' helpless bodies, tearing flesh from bone and spilling a sea of blood. She could see it in her mind's eye; Xander, then Tara and Anya and Giles, and why, _why_ wasn't she strong enough to stop this? Fresh tears filled her eyes and her mind swelled with rage, the light all around seeming to rise and swell with her, and without thought, without reason, she reached out on pure instinct and _pulled_.  
  
She drew the light from the air and absorbed it like a sponge, low level charge filling her with nameless, powerless energy as old as time. It felt immediately natural, so much a part of her that she wondered for a moment where it had been all this time—and then it was filling up her mind, filling up her eyes, her nose, her mouth, pervading every limb, drowning her, and all rational thought ceased.  
  
"No," she said again, and this time the bullets simply vanished into thin air, gone as though they had never existed, the echoing crack of their release already a distant memory.  
  
"Willow?" Giles turned, eyes wide and frightened.  
  
The Council members were scrambling, some checking their weapons, others trading pistols and rifles for larger fare. The Scoobies were in shock, still recovering, eyes and mouths round with surprise, and any second, she knew, the Council was going to fire again.   
  
Xander's broken, bleeding body. The insidious hole that bled Tara's life away.  
  
She couldn't let that happen.  
  
_Take from me. I will be your strength.  
_  
Power exploded from her with the force of a supernova; a colorless, invisible momentum that slammed into everything around her and sent it reeling. Bodies hit the floor, thrown flat by the blast, and candle flames winked out as if blown by a sudden wind. Everything, everyone in the chamber was thrown to the floor in twisted shapes that formed a strange pattern of debris from Willow's body outward, and still, she went on, power radiating from her uncontrollably, plowing through her mind in a wild firing of synapses, breaking down locked doors and shuttered windows with the force of a hurricane. She gloried in the sense of freedom, her guilt shoved aside, and from the cellars of her mind something crept, something dark and unfamiliar yet completely part of her that shifted eagerly, free at last of its moral bonds.   
  
She floated above the floor, toes barely scraping the ground, vicious smile maligning her lovely face. Her eyes were black empty holes that devoured everything save the bright globe that sang and called—to her. Only to her. She breathed alone in that strange light, floating over the bodies of the unconscious strewn all about, drawn to its unnatural luminescence.   
  
"My pretty, precious, beauty," she whispered. Her eyes were huge and depthless, filled with light as the globe flared. She took a breath, flexed her hands, and coveted the moment.  
  
She laid her hands upon it and the light exploded, shattering into a thousand broken rainbows of color.  
  
_Willow_, it whispered, a cool fall breeze through dying branches. _I have waited for you. And now I have awakened._  
  
Hues of glorious color filled the air with power and song, and Willow tilted her head back, letting them wash over her. "What must I do?" she breathed.  
  
The globe pulsed with brilliant color, waxing and waning like the beat of a heart.  
  
_You must use me.  
_  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith opened her eyes and blinked, transfixed and confused for a moment by the fractured rainbow light. And then she was up in a swift movement, nearly overbalancing as she found her feet. Shit. That wasn't good.  
  
But what she was looking at was even worse.  
  
"Willow?" she asked, her voice a faint, disbelieving whisper.  
  
The witch stood atop the platform, hands splayed across the brilliant globe, light spilling out between her fingers like the eyes of God. It caressed her like a lover, played over her skin, seeming to leap in tiny electrical jolts over in and out through her body. Her hair was swept upward as if caught in a strange, slow motion wind, and her eyes—oh God. Her eyes.  
  
Blank, black holes stared out at Faith, their depths swirling with strange creatures made of colored light. Empty of humanity, empty of everything but an all consuming hunger.  
  
"Faith," the witch greeted, and it was surreal, how normal her voice sounded. As if they might have been doing no more than sitting down over coffee, talking about the weather. "Isn't it beautiful?" she asked, and Faith felt her stomach recoil with disgust for the greed in her voice.  
  
"Willow… what are you doing?"  
  
She heard the others begin to stir around her, waking up, rising to their feet. But she couldn't look away. It _was_ beautiful, and it was horrible.  
  
The witch inclined her head at Faith. "I'm going to fix it," she said simply, as if it should have been obvious. "I'm going to make everything the way it should be."  
  
Everyone was on their feet now, struggling to understand what was happening.  
  
"Willow?" Tara whispered, voice trembling.  
  
Willow turned her head, looked at her lover with those terrible eyes, and smiled. "Hey baby. Don't worry. I'm gonna make everything all right."  
  
There was a sudden movement behind her, and Faith opened her mouth to cry out a warning—but the witch never even turned her head, taking one hand from the glass and lashing backward with it. The Master fell to the ground, roaring in anger and pain as she seared him.  
  
"You, _stay_ down. And you," she said, gesturing without turning to Buffy, who stood behind her. "Stay back. I'm going to fix it."  
  
Buffy stood for a moment, as if unsure what to do, then slowly stepped back.  
  
"You'll do nothing," came a cold voice from above and behind them, and Faith turned in dismay, having almost forgotten.  
  
The Council Ops were on their feet, guns pointed and ready once again.  
  
"This just keeps getting better," Spike muttered beside her.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Donner smiled and aimed his gun at the witch's heart. He didn't know what she intended to do with that globe, but she had already proven herself a threat, and be damned if he was going to let her interfere with her magic again. The Council might use magic to their advantage at times, but he himself believed there was nothing quicker and more effective than cold steel. Even the world's most powerful wizards succumbed to a bullet through the heart.  
  
He watched them still, delighted in their confused, tortured expressions, their petty lives nothing more than a drama to be played out upon the stage that belonged to him. He had them exactly where he wanted them, and if they struggled, if they fought, so much the better.  
  
"Now, where were we?" he asked almost pleasantly, finger squeezing against the trigger of his weapon.  
  
"Right about here," came a voice from behind him, and he felt something hard and cold shove against his spine.  
  
Donner's finger flexed once, not quite firing, then he lowered his weapon and stiffened, standing at complete attention. Cool metal dug into his flesh, a small, hollow circle that promised certain death, and he knew this feeling, had been the perpetrator of it too many times to be counted.  
  
"Tell your people to drop their weapons. Now."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith watched in amazement as orders were shouted and the Black Ops reluctantly dropped their weapons and put their hands in the air.  
  
Donner was shoved roughly forward, and an extremely tall, hulk of a man stepped to the edge of the ledge, his gun pivoting to point at Donner's side.  
  
"I told you the favor would be repaid," Tenth said, and smiled.  
  
"I'll be damned," Xander whispered.  
  
Faith stared, shook her head in amazement. "Not that I'm not glad to see you, but what the hell are you doing here?"  
  
"Our Oracle had another vision. Thought maybe I could lend a hand," he said with a casual motion of his free hand.  
  
"More guests for the party," Willow commented. "This is getting interesti—"  
  
Faith sent him a quick grin of gratitude, then seizing the moment of distraction; she turned without warning, leaping for the platform and the globe.  
  
Caught by surprise, Willow lifted her hand—and then Buffy was there, grabbing Faith's arms.  
  
Faith's fingers brushed the glass, brought up short. She had she had a second to regret, had a second to realize she had failed, and then the world exploded with blinding light.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Angel saw her leap, saw Buffy grapple with her, saw her fingers touch the globe but not quite topple it, and then they both went down, life leaving their bodies with a sudden jerk, like puppets whose strings had been cut. He was three steps forward before his brain caught up with him and Willow raised her hand.  
  
"Don't come any closer."  
  
He gauged the distance, gauged her power, contemplated his own speed and the fragility of the glass, then reigned in as he saw the slow, steady rise and fall of breath from Faith and Buffy's bodies. They were alive; that was all he needed to know.  
  
He focused his attention fully on the witch. "Willow… don't do this."  
  
She gave a deep, knowing chuckle, unlike any he had ever heard from her. "You don't want me to do this, Angel? Oh, I know what _you_ want."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith opened her eyes to a bright, cloudless sky. The sun blared, a baleful lidless eye, larger than life, and she squinted against its intrusion.  
  
"Okay. Don't think I'm in Kansas anymore."  
  
The sand was warm beneath her body, and she slowly rose to her feet. "I know this place."  
  
"But do you know your gift?" asked a rough, reedy voice.  
  
She turned, and saw dark skin and scraggly hair, primitive face painted with a crude, white skull.  
  
"The First Slayer."  
  
The dark woman circled her slowly, her eyes incredibly white around her black irises, striking against the deep brown of her skin. There was knowing there, but more than that, there was power, an instinctive animalistic power, the prowess of a panther coiled in the muscles of her form.  
  
"Look, can we do this pointless mysterious conversation thing later? I need to get back there. You don't know what's happening."  
  
"There is nothing more important than the now."  
  
"Yeah. And you know, I'd love to stick around and throw back and forth a few obscure, snarky comments, but I'm a little pressed for time here."  
  
"This is all times. All places. This is the now, what has been and what will be."  
  
Faith sighed and rolled her eyes, hitching up her shoulders in annoyance. "I don't think we're communicating here, Chaka Khan. There's this thing back there, and if I don't stop Willow from using it, it's going to…" She broke off, thought for a moment. "Well. I don't exactly what it's gonna do, but it's going to be bad."  
  
The First Slayer glared up from her crouch, licked her lips. "It lies at the heart of the world—more than that, it _is_ the heart of the world, the heart of all worlds. The very fabric of reality is woven upon its loom, and its nexus is the cradle of space and time. Thousands of years ago, it spun and sung among the heavens, the axis of uncounted universes. It is the axis of worlds. It is what binds reality together."  
  
"You're saying this thing is the glue that's holding the universe together?" She gave a dark, humorless chuckle that made her disbelief obvious. "And here I always thought that was a metaphor."  
  
"A piece of it. It exists in all places, all times; such a thing cannot truly be contained in one place. But once, long ago, there was a tribe who reached outside of reality and captured a piece of it. They wanted to use it to bring their vision to the world. Instead, it used them and left their civilization in ruins. When the civilization they had built disappeared beneath the waves, the few who survived took steps to make sure it would never be used again."  
  
Faith blinked, shook her head. "You're telling me that this thing, or a piece of this thing, or whatever, is _really_ what's holding everything together?" She paused, the implications of that hitting her like blow to the chest. "Then if Willow uses it…"  
  
"Such a thing has its own agenda. It wishes to be used. Alone, it is a passive thing, a force that simply is. Its benign power is to bind reality together, but in the hands of a user, it can be used to change reality to whatever one wishes. But if the user is not careful, the fragile strings that hold the universes together will snap, and all will come tumbling down. Worlds will collide and converge and the strain will destroy the design. A single universe will not abide such chaos. All will be undone."  
  
Faith thought fast, Slayer instinct and twenty-one years of watching sci-fi movies coming together in a moment of perfection. "If I can use this thing, maybe I can make it change reality to destroy itself somehow."  
  
The First Slayer gave a ragged laugh. "You are a warrior, not a wizard. Its power is too great for you to wield. It has waited for the one who can use it, and now it has found her."  
  
"Willow."  
  
"Savior or destroyer," the First Slayer said.  
  
"Dammit," she hissed running her hands through her hair. "All this time I thought it was me—or Buffy. I've got to get back there!" she said frantically. "I've got to stop her before she uses it."  
  
"It has already begun," the Slayer said simply.  
  
"Send me back! I know you can!"  
  
"You have learned much. But still you know nothing of who you are. Where you come from. What you will do."  
  
"Listen, Slayer Power Girl," Faith said through gritted teeth, gave a sardonic glance at the endless dunes and barren, stunted trees. "I can't do anything if I'm stuck here."  
  
The First Slayer paused, hunkered low to the ground and weaved her body back and forth like a cobra. "You are wrong," she said, and bared her teeth in a smile.  
  
The air seemed to shift around Faith, a shivering tingle that ran up the length of her spine and lodged in the base of her brain. Something was coming. No—something was here!  
  
She turned a second too late, and Buffy's fist caught her across the face, spinning her backward into the sand.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Angel looked at Willow wordlessly, startled for a moment by the certain knowledge in her voice.  
  
"Do you know what I can do with this, Angel?"  
  
"Well I'm thinking you could probably power New York with the energy off that thing," he quipped.  
  
She narrowed her empty eyes on him. "I can do anything. Anything at all. I can make Buffy well again. I can make her dead again. I can make anyone into whatever I want. Make them do whatever I want."  
  
"Willow, you know that's—"  
  
"I can take your soul away," she said, and he stopped talking. She smiled slowly, her voice seeming to caress him. "Or, I could make it permanent. Make it part of you forever. Get rid of that nasty little true happiness clause." She tilted her head at him inquisitively. "Wouldn't you like that?"  
  
His mouth dried up and again he was at a momentary loss for words. "It's what I want more than anything," he said. His voice seemed to crack with the longing in his voice. And then it hardened again, steadying beneath his will. "But I have to earn the right."  
  
Willow's face seized with disgust. "Idiots," she ridiculed, voice hard and filled with loathing. "I bring Buffy back to life and all she does is complain and mope and try to end the world. I use my power and Xander complains, Giles frets, and everyone wants to know why I can't just let the world be a miserable place. And you, so in love with your pain that you can't even let it go when you're given the chance. You're all so wrapped up in your stupid, painful little lives. I could unmake you with a snap of my fingers, but instead I offer you a chance at happiness, and you tell me you'd rather be miserable." She rolled her eyes, face scrunching up in a disbelieving frown. "You're pathetic."  
  
"You think you can find happiness with that thing?" Angel asked derisively. "You can't _make_ happiness, Willow. Take my soul away and my conscience will go with it. You think Angelus was ever happy? He's a hateful, vicious creature that will never be happy until every last person on earth is dead. He's an empty hole that no amount of torture and killing could ever fill. Or take away the curse and give me a soul forever. It doesn't change anything. I'll still be the person I am. I'll still spend my life trying to make up for what I've done."  
  
"Why?" she demanded, infuriated. "I could make it so easy. I could make it all go away." She tossed her hair back from her face, and he saw it had grown pale, almost fish-belly white, and it was crossed with a network of dark, pulsing veins. "I know you want it. You're just too afraid to ask for it."  
  
He shook his head, slow and resolute. "I don't."  
  
"I don't believe it," she hissed, and her face was inhuman with hatred. "All my life I've been the quiet little mouse that bobbed her head and smiled and said please and thank you and followed every single rule and the whole time it ate me up inside like a cancer, sickening me, changing me until all that was left was this sweet little shell of a girl. I was weak, afraid. I'm connected to the world now, Angel. Connected to everything through the Winnowin, and I can feel them all out there; sad, angry, crazy, suffering. Just like I was. I can fix it. And you're telling me I should let it stay this way?"  
  
"There are some paths you have to walk alone," he said simply. "And the choice has to be yours. No one can make anyone else happy, Willow. That's something everyone has to find for themselves."  
  
Her hand twitched and he saw that it was thin and skeletal, flesh barely clinging to the bone with ropes of black vein. Her palm flashed up and light shot from it, bright reds, yellows and blues combining into pure white as it struck him, encircled him like a pair of giant arms and lifted him from the ground.  
  
"Let's see what I can find in _you_," she hissed with venomous glee.  
  
He gasped as the light consumed him and crushed against him. He hadn't had to breathe in over two-hundred years, but he felt like he was suffocating, starving for oxygen. Bright spots of color bloomed before his open eyes that had nothing to do with the light that filled the room. The others turned toward him, and he could see their pale faces clearly for an instant, etched with fright and concern. Then the light covered his face, shielding him completely from their view, and he felt the first sharp tingles, like a thousand tiny needles burrowing into his skin. He grunted and gritted his teeth against the pain; the only protest his paralyzed body could make. The moment of overwhelming pain began to pass, the sharp tingling sensation lessening—and then he felt those needles come alive over every inch of his flesh as they began to worm beneath his skin, seeking, exploring, touching and tasting every layer of skin and muscle and tendon, eating right down into the bone. He was in agony, a million tiny fishhooks pulled through his flesh, barbed tips covered in poison, raking over every surface inside and out. And then, as if suddenly sensing whatever it was they sought within him, the wriggled in a sickening wave of anticipation, shot into him and tore through his body, scouring his veins, scouring his organs, scouring everything from the inside as if he had been filled with sulfuric acid.  
  
Angel opened his mouth and screamed.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Spike blinked against the blinding white cocoon of light that enveloped Angel. He turned his eyes away, tears rising in protest of the sudden flare—and got a good glimpse of Willow, head thrown back, hair black as night as it stood straight up on end, body like a sack of bones covered in taut flesh and dark veins that ran through her like rivers. Whatever else the thing was doing, he thought it was probably killing her.  
  
But her eyes were still fixed on Angel, and Spike took advantage of the momentary distraction, trying not listen to Angel's agonized screams as he bolted for the platform. He was a bit worried by what was happening, truth be told, but his thoughts just then were only for Buffy and Faith.  
  
Willow barely flicked her hand in his direction, never moving the light fully away from Angel's screaming body, and the next thing Spike knew he was flying. He had a split-second that felt like forever in which to admire how quickly the cavern floor was moving past him.   
  
There was a sickening crunch and then everything went black.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
This couldn't be happening. It just couldn't. He'd had doubts about Willow in the past few months, sure, but never for a second would Xander have believed they would end up here, like this. The span of a few minutes and both Slayers were down, Angel and Spike were out, and there was no one left with a prayer of stopping her, or the Master, or any of this. Down to just the normal people now, and sure, Giles and Tara had some power, but nothing on what he was looking at. None of them had ever had anything on Willow, and especially not now, when she had so clearly crossed the line she'd been flirting with for months.  
  
No one except him.  
  
"Willow!" Xander stepped forward into the maelstrom of light. With the weight of the world, those empty eyes fell on him, and he took a deep breath, shuffling inside his oversized jacket as he searched for words. "You can't do this."  
  
"Aw, Xander," she mocked with a fleeting smile. "And here I thought you hated Angel."  
  
"I did. I do." He blinked, confused. "Let's not cloud the issue." He swallowed, looked up at her with eyes that had loved her ever since he could remember. "I've known you all your life Willow, and I know this isn't you."  
  
"Maybe you don't know me as well as you think," she replied, dark brows drawing close together, voice lowering with warning.  
  
He gave a shrill, disbelieving laugh. "There's no one that knows you better. Best friends forever, remember? All our lives we've stuck together, and be damned if I'm gonna let you go without a fight now."  
  
"That girl is gone," she hissed. "She never even existed and she hated herself for pretending she did."  
  
"Maybe. But that's not what I remember. You've always been there, Willow. I remember everything. I remember the little girl that held me when my first crush broke my heart, even while her own heart was breaking, because she loved me. And I remember that you were _always_ the only one who loved me, even when everyone else told me I was a loser."  
  
"Shut up, Xander," she thundered.  
  
"You know me, Will." He gave a shaky laugh. "I never know when to give up. And I'm not giving up, now. I know sometimes life gets in the way, and maybe we're not as close as we used to be, and maybe you're not even the same person I remember… but I know you're in there somewhere. And I've never forgotten that sometimes… sometimes you were the only thing that kept me going." He swallowed against the painful truth of his words, heart swelling in his chest. "If you do this… I'm going to lose you." He shook his head, sad and filled with regret. "I couldn't stand that. What would I do without you, Will?"  
  
Her face seemed to crack, breaking with a torrent of conflicting emotions. The light that held Angel flickered, and Xander drew a shaky breath that tasted like hope.  
  
"I said: Shut. Up." Voice shaking, her finger traced a wavy line through the air.  
  
A fragment of light flashed and Xander reeled, falling backward onto the floor. Panicking, he scrabbled at his face with shaking hands. He tried to scream his outrage and horror at what had been done to him, but he was denied even that.  
  
His mouth was gone.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Tenth watched with a sickened sort of fascination as the scene played itself out below, and for the first time he gained true perspective on just how far outside of this he was. The witch was out of control with power, and if Tenth had entertained for a second the idea that he could stop her, that idea died with the quick, precise incapacitation of her friends.  
  
The Slayer was down, but he knew she still had a part to play in this. He had seen the signs, knew the portents. And he knew there was nothing more he could do than what he had already done.  
  
"Come," he said to Donner, motioned to his troops. Tenth's people moved the operatives like a heard of sullen faced cattle, weapons prodding. "There's nothing more to be done here."  
  
They led the Council Operatives from the tunnels, and Tenth gave only one backward glance.  
  
"May the spirit of my ancestors go with you, Slayer," he whispered.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith rolled over in the warm sand and stared at Buffy with eyes filled with resentful admiration, wiped blood from her mouth and marveled at how much it hurt. The injuries to her back and her throat didn't seem to exist in this world, but the damage from Buffy's fist was real enough.   
  
Hand still curled against her lips, she rose to her feet with sharp grin. "Nice sucker punch, B."  
  
Buffy glowered at her, her face glacial with loathing. "I've got a job to finish. You're in my way."  
  
"In a hurry to get back and get dead?" Faith asked. "I can take care of that right here."  
  
Foot crossed over foot, whispering over desert sand as the two moved in a slow circle, gauging each other, sizing each other up; each waiting for the other to make the first move. The desert shimmered like a glistening jewel all around them, dunes rolling out into eternity like the sands of time, its light angry and harsh, yet somehow beautiful, suspended for a moment in prefect silence.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Angel's screams seemed to go on forever, and everyone who remained was locked in place—Giles standing in pained disbelief, Tara holding herself, eyes wide and tearful, Anya cradling Xander on the cavern floor, her eyes no less tearful—riveted by the horror before them that wore the distorted face of their friend.   
  
Within the bubble of shimmering power that seemed to writhe and pulse around Willow like a heat wave, a pinprick of light appeared. Growing larger with each second, it glowed not with the white or rainbow light of the globe, but with a glaring yellow that spoke of a cruel sun that presided over dried mud and cracked earth.  
  
Giles shielded his eyes and squinted, glanced around to see if anyone else noticed. Willow was still caught up in the joy of the cocoon she'd sheathed Angel in, and the others were dumbstruck by the scene playing out before them. He looked back again, and his heart shuddered once in response to what he saw.  
  
Faith and Buffy had risen from their places on the ground, and in some alien desert world, they circled each other like sharks, their blood and intent sealed with the grim set of their faces. He didn't think, he simply stepped forward, knowing he had to help them, had to save them before they killed each other.   
  
One step, a single step, and reality shifted, parting like a thin veil, a curtain drawn back to reveal the enormity and beauty of a thousand worlds. Skies of blue and orange melted and ran together over ancient domes and futuristic spires, fields of green laid out beneath him, filled with flowers whose color he had never seen, oceans of red glittering beneath the light of a thousand suns. Giles swirled among them, lost, a single thread caught upon the edges of uncountable universes, slowly unraveling, thoughts and emotions peeled away from like the casing of his insignificant flesh as he was scattered across them.  
  
Unraveling hands threw themselves to the winds that tossed him with abandon, given to the joy of a chorus of singing voices, lulled by their siren song, filled with innocence and childlike laughter as he drifted, awareness slowly fading.  
  
And then strong hands grabbed his arm, tugging him, pulling him, wrenching him from the grasp of ecstasy. His body rewove itself instantly with a painful snap, and all at once he was whole again, alive and standing in the cavern beneath the earth.  
  
Anya clung to his arm, tears streaming from her huge eyes as she wept. "Don't go," she begged. "You'll die in there."  
  
Still dazed, he put his hand on her arm and patted her reassuringly, eyes straying to the place where he'd seen Buffy and Faith a moment ago. Only the emptiness of the cavern hung there now, mocking him.  
  
Wherever they were, he couldn't reach them.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith's head plowed painfully into the sand, blood trailing across it like a brush stroke as she slid. Grains buried themselves in the taut lines of her face, slipping into her mouth and crunching between clenched teeth. She spun over onto her back, kicked up and out with both feet, and sent Buffy flying through the air away from her, following the force of the kick to her feet. The world flashed red, and the tissue of her jaw felt wrong, left side hanging twisted at the end of broken tendons.  
  
But there wasn't time to worry about that; wasn't time to worry about anything.  
  
Buffy came at her again, fist aimed for another strike at her throbbing jaw, and Faith reached out with both hands, grabbing Buffy's arm and twisting it until she heard muscles scream and tendons snap. Buffy screamed and jerked away with the sound of wrenching bone  
  
The blond Slayer didn't hesitate, sparing not even a glance at her dangling, useless arm, spinning around and catching Faith in the chest with a back kick that sent her flying into the sand once again. Something cracked and shifted wrongly within her breast, and she fought for air as she dragged herself to her feet once again.  
  
Buffy slammed into her before she'd even regained her balance, and the two went down in writhing tangle of limbs, each struggling for the purchase of the other's skin. They hit the edge of a dune and tumbled down it, the world suddenly turned upside down, sky and sand and sky and sand as they rolled, forced to let go of each other and slow the awkward descent of their bodies.  
  
Faith washed up at the bottom of the dune, wanting only to take a moment to catch her breath, to ease the burning ache in her chest that denied her air. And the Buffy was atop her again, bruised mouth grinning and trailing blood and she wrapped her hands around Faith's throat.  
  
Cruel hands bit into the tender flesh of her neck, cutting off the air she so desperately needed. World flickering, consciousness wavering, Faith brought her knees up in a blinding strike, catching the other Slayer full in the back, and Buffy grunted, body arching unnaturally forward with the force of the blow. Her hands came loose and Faith grabbed her wrists, rocking forward and kicking out her legs as their positions reversed and she pinned Buffy beneath her.  
  
"Give it up, B," she grated through gritted teeth, her face only inches from the other girl's. "You've only got one arm now, and I've got 'em both pinned."  
  
"I don't need either one," Buffy spat back, thrusting her head upward into Faith's. Bone struck bone with a flat, terrible sound, and Faith's mind seemed to split apart in a seam of bright red pain.  
  
Dazed, she flopped over into the sand, and Buffy was a dim vision above her, distant and unimportant. It was fading, all fading, and nothing seemed to matter at all as her consciousness ran out like blood upon the ground. Everything was darkening, growing numb, and she barely felt it as another fist slammed into her face with the force of a sledgehammer.  
  
Stupid. So stupid. She'd never been able to take Buffy. She should have known.  
  
Her mind diminished with whispered apologies to those she had sworn to save, and her chest lurched with one final, painful spasm as she realized the depth of her failure.  
  
And then mercifully, consciousness slid away.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Rainbow light flashed like lightning, the very air alive with the sound of thunder and the writhing of electricity, and Willow held it, caressing the moment and drawing it out. Then she snapped her fist shut, and Angel's body fell to the floor in a boneless heap. Limbs bent beneath him at awkward angles, he lay unmoving.  
  
"Well," Willow said, her voice the sound of hands dusting themselves with a job well done. "That's that. Pity. I thought he'd scream more."  
  
"Willow," Tara whispered, her voice wracked with sorrow and pain. "Why?"  
  
"Because I can," the witch replied with a malefic grin. "Oh, don't worry," she cooed. "You'll forget all about it after I'm done."  
  
"What have you done to him?" Giles demanded.  
  
"Nothing compared to what I'm going to do," she replied, voice insidious as it curled through the air.  
  
She wrapped her hands around the surface of the globe and threw her head back. Instantly the fragments of light that hung in the air were drawn inward, sucked into the globe and devoured as if by the mouth of a tornado. Color swirled and sang for a moment, faster and faster, the sound of it almost deafening, and then there was a crack like the sky rending itself apart and the globe exploded in brilliance, throwing everyone from their feet with percussive force.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith felt it, felt the drawing of power, the calling of forces, the bright spark of the Winnowin's life, even as far as she was from it, lost inside the darkness of her own mind. It was happening, and it was happening now. And she was the only one who might be able to stop it.  
  
But she couldn't pay attention to that. Not just yet.  
  
Visions and voices haunted the center of her mind, fragments of dreams and memory fused together in one tale.  
  
_"It was me. I was the one," Buffy said, her voice as distant and cold as her eyes. "My blood." As Faith watched in horror, the twin puncture scars on Buffy's neck opened like tiny mouths and began to bleed, rich vibrant red against pale white flesh._  
  
Blood. Buffy's blood. So prominent in all her dreams, now at last understood. It had been her blood that had been capable of bringing the Master forth.  
  
_Faith in the underground church, come to recover the scroll they had thought to be used to bring back some great power. Buffy's corpse, grasping her wrists desperately, trying to tell her it wasn't what she thought.  
_  
No, of course not. They had never suspected the scroll was to bring Buffy back. But the Scoobies had taken care of that well enough on their own.  
  
_"You missed the party," Buffy said sadly, looking up at Faith with doe-eyes. Then she looked back down at herself and shook her head. "They left this." Her hands trembled as she lifted them, and cupped in her palms was a human heart, still steaming, still beating, blood pumping uselessly into her hands and down her wrists in crimson rivulets. "Please. You take it," she said almost desperately.  
_  
The spell. Her friends had brought her back to life and hadn't even known. Confused, lost, hating that she was alive, left to the tender mercies of the mistress. Wanting nothing more than to go back to the peace she had known when she had given herself to the portal. Oh… B.  
  
_Buffy pulled her up eye-to-eye, and grinned, her incisors lengthening into razor sharp points, mouth stretching inhumanly wide, eyes brightening with a sickly yellow glow. Her features ran and melted as if they had been cast in wax, trading one mask for another, this one all too familiar.  
  
"You should have killed me," Buffy said, laughing.  
  
_Because she was broken, insane, a shadow of her former self that radiated only hate.  
  
_"You need to figure it out."  
  
"Figure out what?"  
  
"Your gift," Buffy replied, frowning, as if Faith should have known the answer. "Death was my gift." She eyed Faith curiously. "I wonder what yours will be."  
  
Faith held out her hand, palm up, and looked down. "This," she said proudly.  
  
"You can't use that," Buffy said, frowning. "It's not yours to give."  
  
Faith closed her palm and then opened it, and the air above her hand began to ripple like a heat wave, threads of light seeming drawn to the nexus above the loom of her fingers, twining together in a ball of mirrored silver and molten gold, forming a small, perfect core.   
  
The First Slayer snarled and Buffy stepped menacingly toward her. "I said you can't. do. that."  
  
"It's done," she said, and even as they watched, the small core flashed once and assumed its final shape—an acorn grown deep brown and full. "Perfect," she said triumphantly reaching out to touch it as it stilled, hovering in the air above her hand. "I knew I could—"  
  
The acorn burst like a soap bubble as her fingertips touched it, its rotten insides exploding in a spray of black that hissed and boiled and burned like a living thing.   
__  
__"You cannot create life. That is not your gift," the First Slayer said, circling Faith slowly in the sand.__  
_  
_Buffy looked at her, eyes sad and resigned, as they had often been in life. "You have to be ready. You'll have to give your gift. I can't stop that. Everything's already started." She sounded distressed, mournful. "I won't be able to help you."  
  
"This is all I have left to give you." She held out her hand and placed a stake into Faith's. Faith gazed down at it and watched as it shimmered and stretched, transforming; stake, ancient stone dagger, wooden stick with symbols carved into it, stake again. "I can't use it anymore."  
_  
_Death was my gift—you cannot create life—there's not much of me left—this is all I have left to give you—  
_  
_There is still something left for you to do.  
_  
The First Slayer's face swirled and twisted within the void, her mouth a black slash of blame and recrimination, and Faith reached out, putting her hand through it. Watched it ripple and then vanish like the phantom it was.   
  
"I know," she whispered in the echoing corridors of her mind.  
  
Knowledge took root in her heart, blooming into flower as the dreams came together with sudden intuition, with knowing.  
  
In the blinding light of the desert, her eyes snapped open, strength drawn from some unknown primal place she had touched only twice in all her time as Slayer. It rose up within her, muscles and nerves firing with new life at its touch, and slowly, with agonizing seconds, her hands crawled over Buffy's, fingers gouging her own flesh as she slid them beneath. Her neck throbbed, and her chest ached for breath, but she clung to the pain like a lifeline, bending it to her will. One finger pried loose, then another, and another, and precious air leapt into her with a thin whisper. Grasping Buffy's fingers cruelly, she twisted them out and away, feeling brittle bones crunch beneath her grip.  
  
Buffy screamed and tried to pull away, but Faith held fast, pulling the other Slayer toward her and releasing her, fist coming up to connect with Buffy's face. The double momentum crushed the blond Slayer's nose and sent her reeling back into the sand, trickling blood. Faith crawled up from the ground, each clawing step like a small victory. She tucked away the hurt in her heart, punched the other girl ruthlessly, again, and again, fist meeting bone with a sound that turned her stomach until Buffy's face was a mass of bruises, eyes fluttering on the verge of consciousness.   
  
And there was no pleasure in this for her, no sense of victory. Only a hollow ache that echoed the pain in her chest.  
  
She heaved herself up and leaned over Buffy, panting heavily with burning breath.  
  
"It's over, B."  
  
"Finally got what you always wanted." Bruised and bloodied lips let the words fall with rancor.  
  
"This was never what I wanted." She bowed her head, pulled the hurt close to her. "All these years, all this time…" Finch, her lies to Giles, the Mayor, Angel, the body switch. "There aren't words for what I did to you, B. And all I've wanted ever since was to make it right somehow."  
  
"Then kill me," Buffy whispered, and suddenly her face shifted, changing, sea green eyes pleading. "Please Faith. Just do it."  
  
_"Please Angel. Just do it. Just kill me."  
_  
"No."  
  
"Do it! I don't belong here anymore. Send me back where I belong."  
  
Buffy. The one person besides Angel who hadn't given up on her even when she should have. The one person she had always regretted hurting above all others. The one person who understood what it meant to be the Slayer. All the sins piled up like ashes in her mouth, each one demanding penitence, demanding reckoning. Faith slowly shook her head, lips curling with sorrow. "I can't. You never gave up on me, Buffy. I can't give up on you. Not now. Not when you have another chance."  
  
"Coward," Buffy seethed, eyes narrowing to hateful slits.  
  
"No. Not this time."  
_  
Death was my gift—you cannot create life—this is all I can give you, all that's left of me—  
_  
"This time, I'm going to make it right. Even if it means I die trying."  
  
Faith closed her eyes and steeled herself. One bloody hand rose to her breast, fingers curved and hardened as she laid them against broken bone. Then fingers slipped beneath, tangling in the swirl and eddy of her blood, passing through bone, and she threw back her head, screaming against the white hot pain. Her heart beat and her lungs breathed, and she could feel their motions as they moved, so near her fingers, grasping digits sharp as knives punched through her chest, rummaging around inside herself like some sort of junk drawer, knowing what she sought was there somewhere, if she only looked long and hard enough. Her screams trailed as gasping, sweating, and shuddering with effort, her fingers clutched upon what they sought. Chest bleeding, every limb trembling with the power of her will, she pulled it forth, felt it break free with a thin tearing sound and a final ragged roar.   
  
A dagger made of stone rested in the palm of her hand, its surface shimmering with the gossamer threads of dreams. All around it, pieces of Faith's flesh and blood still clung, pulsing like the beat of a heart, wreathed in dark power and humanity.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Light crawled over Willow's emaciated body, arcing out all around with delicate, almost beautiful fingers, and everywhere it touched, reality began to erode. Walls broke down revealing the stark beauty of alien landscapes, and within, creatures of all kinds turned their strange eyes to it.  
  
The momentum built within her, wave after wave, rising up with grinning glee, and she raised her arms to the sky, mouth creased in a painful smile as she offered everything up to the chaos the Winnowin promised.  
  
Giles lifted his head from the floor, tried to move, and found that his body would not respond. He fell back weakly, watching with a heavy heart as she pulled the world down around her.  
  
"Willow," he whispered, and his voice was the embodiment of regret.  
  
Behind her, the Master brought his hands together, watched with anticipation. This was what he had waited for, and it mattered not if she brought it with her hand, or he with his.  
  
It was the end of everything.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"It's got a little more on it than what you gave to me," Faith croaked, voice wracked with pain.  
  
Buffy gazed up at her with sad, resigned eyes. Faith could see their shared past held within that sea-green embrace, could see the years of betrayal between them. Faith felt the bond between them shiver with intensity, and it was a bond she would never truly understand, a bond beyond life and death that neither could ever deny the truth and depth of. Those eyes fixed her with the dim fire of determination, and asked for the one thing that Faith alone could perhaps understand.   
  
"Death was my gift, Faith," she said. Her eyes told Faith that this was the one thing Faith could give her, the final repayment of all the dark Slayer's sins.  "Make it yours."  
  
"You know I have to one up you, B," Faith said with a slow, bloody smile. Flesh and blood pulsed as if with breath beneath the harsh desert light, and she lifted the stone dagger in a slow arc, gazing on the barren desert dunes as if it might be for the last time. How beautiful. How perfect that she might end here like this, in the place where Slayers had begun.  
  
"My gift is life."  
  
She shoved the dagger into Buffy's chest with the force of driving a stake home, and it came alive with sudden motion as it struck her, morphing and changing—stick, stake, writhing serpent—  
  
Buffy screamed.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Worlds opened and parted for Willow, each one opening its intangible arms and welcoming her inside and oh, she was the sun to a million galaxies, and all the peoples who lived among them; she was the flow of a river, the caress of a lover, the skinned knee of a child, she was a blade of grass on a distant, dying world. Endless possibilities spun and sang within her, each one proclaiming her their queen, lifting her up, filling her with light and hope and the wisdom to rule them all, to bring them together as one. For so many eons, they had waited for her to come. So many endless years of toiling and suffering that she alone could end. They sang hymns of joy and rapturous songs of worship, eager for her touch, her love.  
  
Dirty, distant streets and the cries of suffering and hunger, so many she could scarcely hear them all; they merged into one great voice of longing and need, and the power within her rose up to answer, unbidden. A sweep of her hand and poverty would be wiped out, a thought, and those who had suffered at the hands of tyranny would rise up and reclaim the lives they should have been living. Those who had never known a drop of kindness or happiness would find a wellspring of such things. A pull of thread here, a twist there, and it could all be changed, all be put right. Their voices cried to her with such need, such desire, building to a crescendo inside her. They needed so much. And her power was great, but it was not infinite, and within her breast, hunger stirred.  
  
In a distant galaxy, a new sun burned with vibrant life, and enraptured by its beauty, desiring of its energy, she reached in and twined her will around it, squeezing. Between her invisible hands, the sun somehow shrank and expanded all at once, its light growing incredibly bright as it struck out into the universe beyond it.  
  
Lives ran out like sand into a paper cup as she poured them down across her soul, and Willow paused as she heard them scream.  
  
So much she could do for them, so much that she _would_ do. The injustices she would right. Poor, starving children that she would give full lives, and who would never have to spare a thought for food on their table. The people whose broken hearts she would mend. She would give them happiness, give them life, give them wisdom and peace and all the things they desired, and they would found religions in her name, build temples to her glory and her righteousness. Wouldn't that be wonderful? Wasn't that worth a few million lives?  
  
Memory hovered at the edge of her thoughts. The sense of who she was, who she had once been. The person she had been. The one who was weak, and sniveling, and completely without the power to help any of this. The one who had let people walk all over her, who had let others tell her right from wrong, as if she couldn't possibly know it for herself.   
  
Loathing rose up, and she pushed past the tiny voice of her conscience, power filling her. She reached out again and tweaked the threads of reality, wrapping them around the sun and warping them as she drew it to her.  
  
Screams echoed in her mind again, and she was millions of people whose lives depended on that sun, their existence winking out as they were consumed by the beginnings of a supernova. And there was no religious love in their hearts now, only the terror of knowing death was upon them.  
  
She faltered, letting the threads slide from her fingers.  
  
_Do it! Take it! You must! You are their Goddess now, and they live only to serve your will.  
**  
**_And there she paused, hovering on the edge of eternity, the edge of reality itself. Faces spun past her, dancing with the song that others still sang, and she saw millions of them, each one unfamiliar in every aspect but the love that shone there for her.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
The world surged and seized, and Faith felt as if her entire life was being pulled from her in one violent moment.   
  
_My gift is life. I can't make it out of nothing, but I can give away what's mine.  
_  
Deep breaths, in this place that did not truly exist in any way she could comprehend. But she understood its significance on some sort of intrinsic level, and she knew that what she had done was the only thing she could have done, and that this was the only place she could have done it. And she might yet die of it, but she would balance the scales.   
  
Her life poured out across the invisible connection to the icon in Buffy's chest, and she had only the vaguest sense of what she was seeing—a desert mirage, a shadowy twist and turn of fate within a writhing body. This was the thing she had sacrificed herself for, this one, true thing. She would give back more than she had taken if it meant Buffy might live. She had once thought she would never give her life for another, and still, she marveled at the purity, the pure stupidity of it… and yet, she wouldn't have it any other way. In this, her final moments as her vision dimmed and the stars of her mind winked out, she understood. This was what Buffy had felt when she'd gone to the portal. Not a sense of giving up, but a sense of saving, of becoming one with something, of becoming something greater than what she was. All these years of struggling, all the suffering, and finally she knew. This was what it meant to be a hero. To be willing to sacrifice yourself for another.  
  
Life fled from her little torrents, muscles growing weak and weary, and she collapsed slowly into sand, letting it cradle her. She gloried in it, these final moments, cherished every happy memory she possessed as it flowed from her in a magnificent flood, laughed in the face of death knowing that she had lived, she had given, and in the end, she had given all that she could. There was no shame now, no regret. She had found herself. She was forgiven. She was everything she had always wished she could be. Everything no one had ever believed she could be. She had beaten the odds, won the game, and oh, she was going home with that knowledge in her heart.  
  
_I'm ready. I'm not afraid.  
_  
She lifted her arms and welcomed the final tide.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Drunk with power, mind reeling, Willow's hands faltered upon the glass, and the places where it no longer touched were painful to her, a thousand tiny deaths contained in the slightest disconnection.  
  
She cried out, tightened her fingers against the smooth, cool surface, feeling the power fill her, sing to her again with its siren song.  
  
_Come __Willow__. There is so much we have to do. So many wonderful things I have to show you.  
_  
She moaned, and within her mind, universes shifted and flared to life once again, her awareness scattered across them in omniscient glee. This was Godhood. Moving pieces here and there, tasting power, drinking worlds. It was all here for the taking, all here for _her_.  
  
_You are the only one who can wield me, __Willow__. The only one with the power to make it right.  
_  
It was right, she knew. Knew it in her heart, like a truth she couldn't escape. She was the only one with the power and knowledge to wield the Winnowin, to save the omniverse from itself. She could do it, if she willed it. She only had to feed, only had to fuel her power. And they lived to serve her, after all. They wouldn't mind if she used them.  
  
Religious hymns sang within her soul, glorying in her power, her beauty, and oh, it had never been like this. She had never been so desperately loved, so unequivocally desired and needed, so cherished. No one had ever looked on her with such adoration, and it was all she ever wanted, this gawky, geeky girl with brains and not much else. Dyed her hair, dated the boy in the band, became the kind of girl she'd always wished to be, and still it had never been enough. Still he had left her, as Tara would have left her for the want of practicing her magic, as all her friends would have deserted her for the same, if only they knew. They never understood her, never understood her need to be loved. How sickened she was with existing inside the chains of expectation. Be Willow. Be good little Willow, they urged. Don't think, don't question.  
  
_They have never loved you like I do.  
_  
Fingertips pressed into the glass, and she felt it flex beneath her, flex _with_ her. It knew. It understood her dreams, her desires, all the secret wants she had wrapped up inside an acquiescing, passive heart. This was right. This was true. And if she demolished the girl she had once been with the hope of being something more, of being something real… was that such a tragedy?  
  
_They will never know. You will be great and glorious, and they will never remember that you were ever any different.  
_  
Was that enough? She didn't know, suddenly wasn't sure, wracked with the frail humanity of doubt she'd been so free of only moments ago.  
  
_It is enough, and more. You are the only one, __Willow__. The only one who can change it.  
  
_And the truth was like a knife through her, slicing her open in a deluge of doubt rather than blood. Yes. She was the only one who could change it. But should she? Were such things meant for a girl who had lived the life she had? Who was she to decide who lived or died?  
  
Millions of lives trembled on the verge, caught in the delicate balance of her psyche and will, and she felt them converge there in a gathering of life and individuality. She knew each one of them intimately; their hopes, their dreams, their fears, and each one of them was her, as uncertain and in need of guidance as she was, trusting in others, trusting in _her_ to know what was best. And she knew she didn't know. Didn't know best. Didn't even know herself. How could she decide for them?  
  
_Do it! You must!  
  
_They love me. They trust me.   
  
_They serve you. _  
  
If I kill them, kill any of them, I betray that.   
  
_It is a small thing. Infinitesimal. You must do it, __Willow__, or all will suffer.  
_  
Visions of pain and suffering flashed through her mind in excruciating detail, and tears streamed down her face. Man, woman, child, alien and demon, they all called to her, cried, begged for her forgiveness and her help.  
  
_Without you, they will die.  
_  
And how many will die to save them?  
  
_As many as are necessary.  
_  
Her eyes squeezed shut, cutting off the flow of her tears, and she shook her head slowly, side to side. In her mind's eye she could still see the omniverse stretched out before her in invitation to its green fields and open skies and strange peoples, could feel the pull of them, their call, their need of her. Possibilities spun in the ether and she had only to reach up and pluck them free to make them true. Creation and death at her fingertips and she was loved, she was adored, she was worshipped; the most powerful being in creation. She was a Goddess.  
  
It was all she had ever wanted.  
  
And yet her doubt, her love, prevailed. The tiniest remnants of humanity still burned and beat within her breast, and she could not turn from the knowledge of them.  
  
_Weakness_, the Winnowin named them, and she shuddered with the force of the condemnation.  
  
The ether shifted and something pulled free. She saw herself, a creature of brilliant light and shifting rainbow hues, more beautiful than anything she had ever known. Creation swirled in her veins and universes spun within her eyes, and stars and suns sparkled like jewels in hair made of comets and cosmic dust.  
  
_You see? This is the power you have.  
_  
So beautiful. Her astral self raised her hand, reached out to touch the vision—and horrified eyes beheld the truth. Skin, pale white as milk and laced with black, vicious veins that cut through her like malignant vines. Flesh had melted from bone, and between skeletal fingers she saw the apparition and knew it for the lie it was.  
  
She was no Goddess. The power of creation lay within her grasp, but she was still Willow, only Willow, now the dark and ravening parody of herself she had beheld once before on the astral plane. A creature without love or conscience that burned with so much power there was scarcely any life left.  
  
Was this what she had become?  
  
She held up her hands against the apparition and gave a voiceless, soundless scream.  
  
_This is what you are until you accept me. You must join with me, make me part of you.  
_  
I can't. I won't.  
  
_You will.  
_  
The Winnowin seized eager hands around her will, but it moved too slow, too late.  
  
_No!  
_  
Yes.  
  
The young sun spun back into orbit and time itself rewound, repairing the universe and all its people as if she had never touched them. Another focus of her will and Xander's mouth returned, Spike's grievous injuries healed themselves. She reached with her mind for Angel, and the Winnowin caught up with her, insinuating itself all around her. Not enough time, not enough time—  
_  
You cannot leave me __Willow__.  
_  
Fingers pulled free of the glass, one aching centimeter at a time, skin burning with the lack of connection, screaming with the loss of love. She screamed, she hated, hissing and railing against the lie of her skin, torn between wanting and living with reality.  
  
_Together we are unstoppable. We can do anything. Alone you are nothing.  
_  
No. Alone, I'm me. Whatever I may be.  
  
She blasted the glass with the last of her power, force ripping through the Goddess that the Winnowin wore with her face. The vision vaporized instantly, and an unearthly wail tore at her ears, making them bleed.   
   
She ripped her hands from the glass, soul screaming, nose bleeding, black eyes pouring tears. Pain and loss flowed from her like a river, and she fell to the floor beneath the force of it, darkness swallowing her whole.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Giles reached out, as if he could stop Willow's fall by his will alone. And then, miraculously, as her touch fell away, the globe instantly dimmed; its light diminishing to the faint pulse and flow the Master had brought with its awakening.  
  
Slowly, taking stock of his limbs and the extent of injury to them, he sat up—and his breath caught sharply in his throat.  
  
Faith and Buffy kneeled on the floor, each with their right hand on the other's shoulder, eyes closed, locked in some sort of internal conflict he could only imagine.  
  
And the Master rose and stepped forward, prepared to take up where the weakling human had left off.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
The last remnants of life fell from Faith, and she floated in a void of nothingness, comforted by its touch.  
  
_You have succeeded. You are worthy.  
_  
The First Slayer twisted out a smile.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith's eyes flew open.  
  
Her throat ached where the ragged punctures had torn open, bleeding like tiny mouths beneath their bandage, and her back throbbed where her stake had pierced her, but she was alive. She knew she couldn't be in this much pain and be anything else. She tightened her fingers in the muscles of the other Slayer's shoulder, face splitting in a grin.  
  
Buffy's eyes snapped open, their gazes locking with fire, recognition and realization.  
  
"You ready for another round, B?"  
  
One corner of Buffy's mouth curled up in a smirk, and Faith felt her own mouth twist in response.   
  
"Let's do it."  
  
As one, they rose to face the Master.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
It was a battle to be told through the ages; two Slayers working together in a dance of precision, every move, every kick and punch woven in a ballet of death. It was perfection, a thing of beauty that had rarely been seen by mortal eyes. And it was futile.  
  
The Master laughed as he parried and blocked and returned each blow in kind, his skill seemingly amplified by the proximity of the globe. Buffy glided in like a shark, seeking a hole in his defenses, and he caught her arm. "I guess this means we aren't friends anymore?" he asked and yanked her arm upward as his free hand punched her in the face and sent her reeling. "Foolish girl. You fight against the inevitable."  
  
Buffy staggered, caught her balance, gathered herself on the edge of the platform, and grinned as Faith returned his punch with equal fervor, staggering him.  
  
"Big words. Looks to me like you're outmatched."  
  
The Master thrust out his fist, catching Faith with a glancing blow across the jaw. He grabbed the dark-haired Slayer and thrust her backward in her stupor, tossing her to the edge of the platform with ease.  
  
He rose tall, bringing his hand up in an eloquent gesture. "Come to me," he said, and his eyes were huge whirlpools of darkness, ripe with promise.   
  
She knew how to fight this! She'd done it before! But here, within the Winnowin's pull, she found herself helpless, unable to resist. Buffy took a reluctant step forward, every fiber of her being fighting against his pull, but she could no more stop her feet than she could stop the earth from turning. One step, two, three, a fourth, and she was within his grasp.  
  
He grabbed her, and though her mind resisted, her bones betrayed her, acquiescing to his grip. He spun her around and pulled her to him, the intimate embrace of a lover.  
  
"You see? You are mine, Slayer. And your blood will only fuel my power when I use the Winnowin."  
  
He dipped his head, fangs scraping over her flesh, and she shuddered with the familiarity of it, the only protest she could make against his intrusion.  
  
The world seemed to slow and stop, fangs sinking into skin and drawing life.  
  
And then there was a hand in hers, fingers grasping hers so painfully she could not help but notice them.  
  
Faith grinned up at her, mouth bleeding and belligerent.  
  
"Help me," the dark-haired Slayer said.  
  
Faith reached out with a trembling hand, fingertips brushing glowing glass, and Buffy reached with her, one hand rising up as if in a trance, seeking the cool curve.  
  
Together, they touched the globe, and the world opened in a roaring whirlpool, the light of a young sun perched on the edge where Willow had abandoned it.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Faith spun on the edge of eternity, lost to the promises of the globe. Whispers of half-truth and lies tickled her mind, touching all the right places, unlocking her will and freeing the dark creatures she had exiled what seemed like a lifetime ago.  
  
"Buffy!" she gasped, straining against the pull, tightening her fingers through the other Slayer's.  
  
"I'm here," Buffy answered.  
  
Time twisted and bent in upon itself, and Faith felt the other Slayer's presence like an extension of self. She wasn't strong enough for this. The First Slayer had been right. One chance. Only one chance to end it all and save the world, and she couldn't do it alone. But she had already given so much of herself… how much more did she have to give? She had been willing to give up her life only moments ago, but that seemed a small thing in comparison to what she knew she must do now.  
  
_Don't let her in, Faith. She hates you. She'll only use what you give her to destroy you.  
_  
Preternatural, warrior senses detected the weakness in the globe's presence as it spoke. It had been hurt, wounded somehow, and she knew suddenly that if it hadn't been, she would never have been able to do this at all.  
  
Willow burned your omniscient ass, didn't she?  
  
She could sense its anger dancing close to the surface, but not quite revealed.  
  
_Willow__ means nothing. It is you I have waited for, Faith. You mustn't let Buffy inside. She'll try to take me from you. She'll—  
_  
Save it.  
  
In a sudden burst, Faith opened her mind, opened her heart, throwing back her head in defiance of her own reluctance, letting go of her body, her hopes, her fears, everything that comprised self, letting go of it all, and it seemed that she existed in two places at once; her empty body still holding on to Buffy's hand, connected to the glass, and her awareness spinning within a roaring whirlpool of universes.  
  
Help me, Buffy.  
  
Buffy shook free of her own skin, and Faith saw her with two sets of eyes, her body for a moment made of glowing light, and then she felt Buffy enter her, the minds of both merging and growing together, their power growing together, building on itself and expanding beyond anything either had ever known. It was pure power. Slayer power.  
  
The gateway shuddered and held with their combined will, and slowly, inexorably, the Master felt himself drawn to it. He lifted his fanged maw from Buffy's neck and stared into the universes held within the globe, and knew what it held for him.  
  
"No," he whispered, not believing that it could betray him, even now.  
  
The world ripped itself apart with a thick tearing sound as the Slayer's brought the gateway into reality, and the light of the sun burned within the rift, beckoning, calling to him.  
  
Light swirled around him, consuming him, and he threw back his head, howling at the pain and injustice. Bits of flesh began to break from him, swept up by cataclysmic winds and devoured by the vortex, faster and faster until his very blood swirled in the light, dancing on its promise and eaten by the same. Flesh broke from bone, and then even bone blackened and bent beneath its will, dispersed into dust upon the unforgiving wind. A final scream was torn from his throat, and then he was so many atoms drawn into the heart of the sun, gathered and dispersed across so many universes, scattered to their whim.  
  
Buffy fell to the floor without his embrace to hold her, felt her awareness rush back from the globe and lodge back inside her own mind, separated from Faith's once again, and she had a moment where she felt hollow, empty without the other Slayer's presence.   
  
Faith returned to herself with a snap, feeling the loss of their combined power like the loss of a limb. Breathing hard, she turned to stare at the globe.  
  
It retracted its brilliant light, sun disappearing as the rift sealed. The glass darkened momentarily, then returned to its innocuous, glowing dance.  
  
  
  
  
  
___________________________________________  
  
  
Final Chapter to follow shortly!  
  



	20. Mortal Ground 2 Chapter 20: Cadence

Note: I know I said this would be the final chapter, but there are two final chapters, the last one following this one.

CHAPTER 20: CADENCE  
  
The time between the notes relates the color to the scenes.  
A constant vogue of triumphs dislocate man, so it seems.  
And space between the focus shape ascend knowledge of love.  
As song and chance develop time, lost social temp'rance rules above.  
Ah, ah.   
  
Then according to the man who showed his outstretched arm to space,  
He turned around and pointed, revealing all the human race.  
I shook my head and smiled a whisper, knowing all about the place.  
On the hill we viewed the silence of the valley,  
Called to witness cycles only of the past.  
And we reach all this with movements in between the said remark.   
  
            ~ Closer To The Edge IV (Seasons of Man), Yes  
  
______________________________________________  
  
  
It was over.  
  
And now the lights would come up, and the curtain would fall, and all the people of Sunnydale could sleep peaceful. They'd take their bows and go home.  
  
Well, some of them would.  
  
It was all over now.  
  
Except—  
  
The globe danced with muted light, now, its power dimmed through their combined efforts. It was a small thing, tiny and fragile. No more rifts torn in reality, no more people like paper dolls cut into the shape of God to do its will. Paper dolls, lined with veins like black ink—  
  
"Oh, God. Willow."  
  
Faith turned fearful eyes to the edge of the platform where Willow had been. The witch still lay there, limbs bent and splayed unnaturally, body looking as fragile as the glass—but pale… still too pale, and skeletal. She'd been its pawn, its plaything, believing herself its master as surely as it had mastered her. And yes, the globe had weakened—but had its hold?  
  
And then as she watched, Willow's body softened, bones disappearing beneath slowly returning flesh. Black veins surged once then retreated beneath pink skin, vanishing as if they had never been. Her hair shimmered, black opulence rising into the air like a hissing, living thing, and then dissipated into nothingness. With a gasp, Willow became conscious, sitting bolt upright, eyes flying open, and Faith couldn't help but notice how diminished she looked, how weak and wan, how empty now, without the power of the Winnowin filling her. Empty black pools stared out for a split second, an echo of power and hatred remaining yet—and then Willow blinked, and only hazel eyes remained, their depths terrified and filled with incomprehension.  
  
For a split second, Faith realized that Willow didn't know. She didn't remember. Yet. But she would. Faith could see the wave of realization coming in like a tsunami.   
  
"Willow?" she asked.  
  
Wide eyes skittered with fear and memory, and then the wave hit. Faith watched it fall over the witch and consume her like a tidal wave. There was one faint nod as her chest heaved with a racking sob, and then red hair fell forward like a curtain over her face as it broke. Overcome, Willow shoved desperate hands against her choked cries trying in vain to cover them. She pushed at her face, pulled at her hair, tore at herself, sobbing as if her heart had broken. And for an instant, Faith only watched, could only marvel at the raw emotion. And for that instant, she almost envied the release.  
  
And then Xander and Giles and Tara were there, putting their arms around Willow's shaking shoulders, covering her shame from the world, hiding her from eyes that shouldn't see. Faith swallowed once, then looked away, feeling like the intruder she was.  
  
Another movement caught her attention from the corner of her eye, and she turned her head.  
  
Buffy.  
  
The blonde Slayer struggled to rise, disheveled and tiny as Willow, her eyes no less haunted and filled with sorrow. But if Faith felt like an intruder, then she wasn't the only one. Buffy's eyes were locked on the circle of friends, filled with a thousand emotions as she gained her wobbling feet. She took a shaky step, then stopped, wiping the grimy sleeve of her sweater over her mouth as she looked away. Another uncertain glance, as if she wanted to go to them, and then the struggle of decision left her. She sagged, one hand dangling uncertainly at her side, the other crawling up over her own shoulder, as if to cradle herself.  
  
"It's okay," Buffy murmured, and in that moment Faith understood that Buffy couldn't simply go to them, as surely as she herself couldn't. "They'll be okay."  
  
She took a slow step toward the other Slayer, and Buffy started, as she hadn't known Faith was standing there. She shuffled her feet, feeling awkward with the intimate moment. "So will you," she said, then cleared her throat.  
  
Slowly, Buffy turned to look at her with calm, gray-green eyes. Then the tiniest of smiles graced her pale, bruised lips, and she nodded.  
  
"I know."  
  
Another rustle of clothing, and the moment between them was broken.  
  
"Buffy?" Spike approached them from the side, blue eyes blinking furiously against the dazed expression on his face, blond hair tousled and wild. And Faith had never seen him like this. Never seen him quite so soft, so uncertain of himself. The wild, raucous Spike was long gone, and in his place stood a man Faith wondered if she had ever seen before.  
  
Is that what love did to a person?  
  
"Spike?" Buffy asked, voice quiet and uncertain. Her eyes flickered with the confusion of memory, trembling on the verge, and Spike's eyes met Buffy's with a pale blue intensity that made Faith's breath catch in her throat.  
  
Was that love?  
  
Love…  
  
"Angel!" Faith gasped, turning to look for him.  
  
Buffy's eyes widened, and the connection between her and Spike snapped with an almost audible sound as she echoed Faith's proclamation.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Angel woke with a sudden, startled gasp.  
  
Eyes that felt like they hadn't seen the world in a very long time trailed over the contours of the ceiling, mind grasping for memory for several long seconds.  
  
Something was different… something was…   
  
_He_ was different.  
  
Memory washed over him in a sudden flood; Willow behind the glass, arm outstretched, power flowing from it, flowing over him, suffocating him, enveloping him… changing him.  
  
_I can take your soul away.  
_  
For a moment there was nothing but sheer panic, a red-hot explosion through the primitive connections of his mind. Had she taken it away? Had he… was he…?  
  
He sat bolt upright in the consummation of his terror, struggling for a memory, for anything. What had she done? Who was he now?  
  
For more than a hundred years there had always been a voice… _that_ voice… the one that mocked him, that dogged ceaselessly at his heels. The one that whispered and laughed, biding its time, waiting for its moment, coiling around his mind with dark tendrils. The one he'd hated more than anything, because despite his best intentions, despite his noblest deeds, that voice was still a part of him; would always be part of him. And now it was gone.  
  
He reeled with the implications, hands clutching at his body as if he weren't certain he was real anymore; as if he weren't certain of anything.  
  
_I can make it permanent.  
_  
Could she? Had she?  
  
_Get rid of that nasty true happiness clause.  
_  
No.  
  
_Isn't that what you want?  
_  
Oh. God.  
  
His soul. Magic had sewn it to him with a million, tiny agonizing stitches, as surely as Wendy had sewn Peter Pan's shadow to him. Angelus wasn't gone. He would never truly be gone until the day Angel died or his heart beat again. But the demon was relegated to the background, nothing more than far away radio static, unable to reach him across the tether of his soul.  
  
He raised his hands and stared at them as if he had never seen them before.  
  
And for the first time in a long time, he felt tears rise in his eyes.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
  
"Angel!" Buffy cried out, and she reached him first, falling to the ground on her knees. "Are you okay?   
  
"I'm…fine," he managed. He stared at her as if he hadn't seen her face in a hundred years, still too overwhelmed to process everything that had happened—that still _was_ happening. "Are you?"  
  
"I-I'm…" Her face worked, and she put a hand against it, as if to bring her emotions under control. Tears rose in her eyes, and her gaze went a million miles away. "Yeah, you know…" she sniffled, trailed off. Gathered herself, tried to speak again. "It's—"  
  
She broke off, pressed a hand to her trembling mouth, the dam of her emotions finally breaking free. Her shoulders shook and she choked back a sob as she rapidly came undone, squeezing her eyes shut against the flood of tears. "Oh, God… Angel. I—"  
  
Slowly, like a man in a dream, he folded his arms around her, took her sobs against his shoulder and let them fall with grace. He couldn't think past the moment, and right then, he only knew that she was there, she was alive, and she was hurting.  
  
Faith stood where she had stopped when Buffy fell to her knees, standing frozen atop the platform like a statue. But statues had more life, more expression.   
  
Dreams broke and illusions shattered as she watched the two of them embrace each other.   
  
_Was that love?_   
  
Her heart ached in her chest, each beat like a knife against her breast, but still she held her chin high, breathing a bit too fast, perhaps, cheeks a little too flushed, but rigid and solid.   
  
_Is that what love did to a person?_   
  
Unbreakable on the outside even as she exploded into fragments on the inside. She would never let them know. Never let them see.  
  
_So this is love.  
_  
Well.  
  
It wasn't as if she hadn't known, after all.  
  
"And that's the way it is," Spike said softly at her side. Eyes fixed on the pair, he slipped his hands into his pockets, and there was a soft sound that might have been a sigh, or maybe just the rustling of leather. "This is what we get."  
  
She tilted her head at the couple, face so tight she thought it might break if she spoke, and struggled desperately to pull herself from the pit of hatred and despair that tugged at her heart. The memory of trembling kisses against her mouth. Strong arms holding her so close. Whispered words. Just words.  
  
People always thought she didn't listen to them, didn't care. And it was true; she went far out of her way to give that very impression. But when it came right down to it, she always knew the right thing, deep down inside, even when she denied it to herself. She always had. After all; that was why she was standing here, wasn't it?  
  
She wasn't going to let it go down in flames of self-hatred. Not this time.  
  
She shook her head, cracked a bitter smile as her words to Angel from so long ago came back to her with finality.  
  
"Every good deed is its own reward, right?"  
  
Spike cut her a sidelong look as if he thought she might have lost her mind, but she didn't turn to look at him. Her eyes were fixed on the couple below.  
  
He opened his mouth, scathing reply on the tip of his tongue.  
  
But she was already walking away.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Willow pulled from her friends, wiping at her eyes, trying to push down the sense of loss, the loss of self that she felt.  
  
She rose to her feet, fending them off, searching for the remainder of her friends.  
  
"Buffy," she whispered, sighting her. Then her mouth turned down, and her eyes grew even more sad, if that were possible. "Angel."  
  
Of the two of them, only Angel seemed to hear her. He raised his eyes to her above Buffy's quaking shoulders, his gaze sad but somehow hopeful.   
  
"It's permanent now, isn't it? My soul. The curse is gone."  
  
She nodded. "It is." Her eyes skittered to Buffy and welled with tears again as lips curled under, trembled with an unreleased sob. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."  
  
Several yards away, Faith stopped dead in her tracks, breath catching in her throat, stiffening as if a blade had been buried in the center of her spine.  
  
"Willow…" Giles' voice was grave, solemn in its condemnation and disbelief. "You couldn't." She met his eyes with her tear filled ones and said nothing, the weight of her gaze giving him to know that she'd spoken the truth.  
  
"How?" he whispered, stunned.  
  
She swallowed, straightened her stance as she regained control of herself. "The Winnowin."  
  
No one said a word, simply stared.  
  
"We have to destroy it," Willow said, eyes leveling on the glass with hatred so intense her gaze alone could have broken it.  
  
"Can we?" Giles asked, moving to her side. "Is it possible?"  
  
The globe flashed once with white light, as if in warning, and the world trembled around them.  
  
"It can hear us," Tara murmured, glancing around as the echoes faded away.  
  
Willow nodded, then shook her head thoughtfully. "It doesn't matter. We're the only ones that can finish this." Her eyes flicked left, then right, voice lowering. "I'll need all of you to help me. Feed me… one last time."  
  
No one moved. Angel was lost in his own world, and Buffy to her sorrow. Xander shuffled his feet as if he wanted to say something, but his mouth remained as firmly shut as when she had sealed it. Anya looked at her with disbelief, but Giles and Tara were the worst of all, the way their eyes didn't quite meet hers, the way they stared off nervously into the distance. They didn't trust her. They shouldn't.  
  
The globe flickered and flared, as if it could sense her threat, and the earth vibrated around them again.  
  
"I can't do it without your help," she said, and closed her eyes, not able to stand the way they didn't look at her.  
  
Long, uncomfortable seconds passed, and she felt like she was sinking into the ground. She was in pieces, broken, and she didn't know if she'd ever be able to put it all back together again. And it was funny, the sound that silence made, the sound that it made as it pushed in deep. And then a voice—the last voice she'd ever expected to hear—spoke up, worn and weary, but still blithely bitter, still strong somehow, despite everything.  
  
"Use me."  
  
She opened her eyes and Faith met her with a cynical smile. "It's not like there's much left for me to lose, anyway."  
  
The floor shuddered beneath them, and Willow reached out as pieces of the ceiling fell all around them, taking the Slayer's rough hand within her own. Stained with blood, bearing sacrifice, Faith's sins were far more visible than Willow's, but no less real than her own. Dust shivered down from above, giving the world a hazy glow as she watched the Slayer close her eyes, giving herself over to Willow's will entirely.  
  
Slowly, ever so carefully, she felt Tara's fingers snake through her own and tighten. She glanced to the side, flashed her lover a grateful smile, and watched as Xander linked his hand through Tara's, and Anya's through his. Giles linked his hand with Faith's free one, and then it was done, all eyes upon her except for Faith's, who were still closed in the ultimate expression of trust; a trust she was far more grateful for than she could have ever realized.  
  
"When we do it… when it's done, we're going to have to run."  
  
"And this is different from the rest of my life, how?" Xander asked, and her heart was eased by the familiar sarcasm of his tone.  
  
"Angel?" she asked, speaking up, inclining her head toward the vampire. She felt Faith's fingers flex within hers, an unconscious response that nonetheless spoke volumes to Willow.  
  
Angel nodded after a moment, tightened his arms around Buffy. He whispered something unintelligible into her ear, and the two of them rose unsteadily to their feet.  
  
"Let's do it," she whispered, calling their energy home.  
  
Without thought, without ceremony or word, power flew from her in an invisible arc. It hit the globe and lit with a rippling golden glow that lifted it up into the air. White light exploded within the golden waves, expanding outward in rage, trapped fast by the power Willow forced upon it. The world trembled all around them, floor shaking beneath their feet, and she barely contained the blast that would have brought them all to their knees, that would have buried them beneath chunks of dirt and stone. And she could see it all as clearly as if it had happened, bodies crushed, closed in by darkness, air running out—she shoved the vision away, shoved its power away, forcing it back into the tiny space that held it. Watched as it began to overload, white light burning her irises as it caught upon itself; light so bright that it burned her through the veil of her eyelids, no matter how tight she squeezed them shut. She concentrated with all her might, shoved the force of power back, trapping it there until she thought the glow would blind her through her closed eyes.  
  
And then there was a high keening sound, like a soulless wail; the sound of shattering glass, thin fragments imploding upon themselves in a music that made her heart shudder within her chest.  
  
The rainbow of possibility in her mind went out, its light utterly gone as if it had died, and she felt tears slip down her face with its loss. No matter how she hated it, no matter how she would fight against it, it had become part of her, and she felt its loss.  
  
She cried out, a grating sound through violently clenched teeth, every nerve, every muscle trembling with the effort of focus as she tried to contain the force of the Winnowin, tried to hold in the supernova of power that expanded even as it collapsed in upon itself.  
  
_I will die. But I will take you with me_, it whispered with vengeance, voice reverberating through her head, thick with betrayal.  
  
"No!" She screamed, blood choking from her nostrils in a crimson spray. And she wanted to cling to it, show her power over it, force it back into its proper place. She could hold out against it. She could. She had to.  
  
"Let it go, Willow," Faith said. "We stay, we die. That's what it wants."  
  
She wrenched her hand free of the Slayer's, tugged painfully from Tara's, fell to her knees, crimson rivulets trailing down her face as her eyes snapped open, focusing on them.  
  
"Run."  
  
The world exploded in light behind them, so bright that it left an after image of the cave imprinted in their eyes. And still they ran, seeking to outrun the inevitable.  
  
The earth groaned and tore itself apart before the power, stone walls that had stood for hundreds of years laid to dust in mere seconds before it.  
  
_I come for you_.  
  
_You'll never take me_, Willow answered, running so hard she felt her heart might burst, running so fast she nearly flew with concussive force of the explosion. And then there were hands grabbing her, pulling her up the ledge. It crumbled beneath her feet, and she nearly slid down into the embrace of cold, eager earth—and then she was pulled free again, set right on her feet, arms pulling her, forcing her to keep running.  
  
The world was thunder and lightning, the most vicious storm any had ever bore witness to, ceiling shivering down upon them in a painful rain of rock, walls collapsing inward just behind. It pursued them with a singular mind that was rapidly disintegrating as the light faded, its dying thought focused on their deaths, its very voice become the roaring of demolished walls that nipped at their heels, seeking desperately to pull them in, pull them under.  
  
She ran on, tears streaming down her face, heart pounding in her throat until she forgot who she was. Until her legs ached and her bones were numb, and still she ran.  
  
And then she could feel it. The cool night air, so close, so teasingly within reach. She raised her face to it, drank it in deep, determined to take it with her if it were the last thing she ever tasted. She stumbled, nearly fell, raised her head to the sky and screamed her rage, and then again there were hands upon her, dragging her, pulling her forward, and then—  
  
And then she lay upon the grass, nose and mouth bleeding freely into the fragrant scent of green, and there were arms around her, concerned blue eyes loving her, murmuring words of life and hope into her ear, reminding her that she was still alive.  
  
Alive. They had made it.  
  
Keep running, the voice prodded, and somehow, she made it to her feet, kept moving.  
  
The thundering echoes faded into the distance.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *             
  
Old downtown Sunnydale disappeared in one convulsive gulp. Brick and glass and steel slid down an unforgiving earthen throat, devoured in a bright explosion of light that left many of the surviving Sunnydale citizens blind for days.  
  
Some said that for an instant, they glimpsed heaven in the mouth of madness, peaceful fields of green and skies of tranquil blue trapped deep within the ground. Others raved about a well of souls, thousands of faces trapped and screaming within the shifting earth as it swallowed its meal.   
  
When it was done, the Sunnydale museum stood upon the edge, insides spilled out into the gaping hole, a few walls still standing in testament to its existence. Stone and steel groaned on the precipice, and several thousand feet away, a gas station exploded into the night, tanks pulled free and ignited as they vanished into earth and air. From within the museum, one final piece of metal tore free, clinking and clicking as it tumbled down to the edge of the massive hole.  
  
"Sunnydale History". The words flashed as the sign teetered in the moonlight, and then gravity claimed it as it overbalanced, pitch black maw claiming it with a final glint of metallic sheen.  
  
The earth shivered to a stop, and the town began to breathe again, erupting into the wail of sirens and the screams of the surviving.  
  
Just another night in Sunnydale.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
They finally came to a halt about a mile from the devastation.  
  
"Is it… is it over?" Tara asked breathlessly, clinging to Willow.  
  
Willow sank gratefully into the embrace, brought her head up and stared into the distance. She reached out with her power—and felt nothing. The same empty space she had always felt. She was alone again. Alone and only as powerful as she wished to be.  
  
"It's over," she said, wiping blood from her face.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
They limped the rest of the way to the Magic Box, no one speaking, ignoring the odd tilt of the cars and houses around them; Tara's arms around Willow, Anya and Xander holding tightly to each other. Buffy and Angel held each other up, faces grave as they made their way, and Giles strode beside them on Buffy's side, one hand upon her shoulder as they walked. Spike trailed along behind them all, face set and stoic, trying in vain to keep his eyes from the couple in front of him.  
  
And if anyone noticed that Faith was no longer among them, they said nothing.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
Dawn flew into Buffy's arms as the door opened, and the two went down in a tangle of limbs, brown hair over gold as they pressed their cheeks together and sobbed. Buffy stroked Dawn's hair, whispered words meant for her alone, and then after a bit, when Dawn had calmed, she rose to her feet. Turned to Giles and caught him up in a hug so emotional he might have blushed with proper British embarrassment if he hadn't been so happy to see her. He hugged her back, touched her hair and smiled. There was no need for words between them, never had been at moments like this. And then she turned to Xander, enfolding him in her arms with another emotional outpouring, and when he made some sort of smart-assed comment, she choked back a sob that made her realize how much she had missed being home. There was a moment of hesitation between her and Willow, the witch shifting and uncertain, eyes huge and sad for all they had wrought, and then Buffy caught her up in a tight hug, whispering forgiveness, whispering friendship and love. Even Anya and Tara took their turn at being hugged, and Spike watched it all from across the room, Angel and Cordelia nearby.  
  
"Helluva reunion, innit?" he asked, voice snide.  
  
"What? You want a turn?" Cordelia asked, smirking.  
  
"_Someone's_ missing their turn," Angel muttered.  
  
One corner of Cordelia's mouth quirked up in a smile, and she purposely didn't look at Angel as she commented. "Yeah. She's in the back."  
  
He turned, stared at her in surprise. Opened his mouth. Closed it.  
  
"You'd better hurry before the hugging makes its way to this side of the room."  
  
"Aw, not much on the group hug, are you Peaches? Would've thought that'd go right along with the do-gooding soul and the brooding sessions."  
  
"Are you kidding?" Cordelia looked at Spike in disbelief. "Have you seen him hug? It's like… a train wreck! With really… awkward arms."  
  
"Hey! I do not have…" Angel shifted, tried to glower, then stood back and readjusted his posture, glanced self-consciously at his arms.  
  
Cordelia and Spike gave him a disbelieving look filled with knowing as they waited for his explanation.  
  
He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned. "I should go."  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
She stood inside the weapons room in half-light, limned by soft yellow bulbs and shadow, fingering a crossbow with absent thought. She listened to the din of voices outside, the slow, halting explanations, the explosion of caring and group hugs that followed, and she was both a part and apart from them, there only by the grace of her heart.  
  
It was over. It was time to move on.  
  
But to where? She wondered, the ache in her chest by now becoming familiar, settling in with a weight she was all too accustomed to.  
  
"Faith?"  
  
She turned, her heart giving an unexpected leap. She had known it would happen, and yet she hadn't prepared for it. Hadn't known how to be able to prepare for it.   
  
_Play it cool baby, remember_. She swallowed, took a deep breath, searched for a casual note that would end things just right.  
  
"Yeah, Angel. What's up?"  
  
He was dark and beautiful as he entered, closing the door behind him in a flow of graceful trench coat. It hurt her just to look at him, to remember where he had been, to think of where he would be, when she was gone.  
  
And still he had the nerve to arch a brow at her, as if surprised by her casual manner. He took a few slow steps toward her, hands slipping with familiar ease into the pockets of his coat. She knew that move. Knew so many of his moves now.  
  
"Nothing," he said, still moving closer. "I just wanted to…"  
  
"Say goodbye?" she supplied helpfully, heart catching in her throat a she spoke. But it didn't show. She always made sure it never showed.  
  
"I was never much good at goodbye." He smirked.  
  
She pulled the crossbow she held in her hands against her chest as if armoring herself with it. Fiddled with the unarmed string, not wanting to have this moment, not wanting to have to say what needed to be said. And yet, there was no time left for them to do it otherwise. And how could they leave here, how could they leave now with so much unsaid?  
  
"Look, Angel. I…" She broke off, gritted her teeth and damned herself for not being able to get out the words. She'd helped save the world but she couldn't have an honest conversation with her… boyfriend? _Was_ he her boyfriend? Ex-boyfriend? God, how high school was that? And really, when you got right down to it, wasn't this whole thing about that ridiculous?  
  
She sighed and steeled herself. The words had to be said, and she could do this. She could give this much, after all she had given before. Couldn't she?  
  
"Angel…" she began again, and his named rolled over her tongue with a familiarity that hurt her even more than looking at him. When had that happened? When had she begun to think of him as hers, even though she'd known better? Even the taste of his name was intimate, and it shouldn't be like this. Should never have been like this. There were walls and miles between them, and if she'd ever had any doubt of that, she had only to look as far back as the memory of Buffy, nestled safe and lovingly in his arms to know better.  
  
And somehow, that image alone gave her the courage to push on.   
  
"Look. I don't wanna make a big deal or anything," she said, shrugging with a casualness that surprised even her. "I figure we say our goodbyes quietly, spare ourselves the big 'Shakespeare in Love' parting scene, go our separate ways."  
  
"I love that movie," he said softly.  
  
She smirked, shook her head, amused despite herself. She hated the way he touched her, the way he always caught her off guard and surprised her, slipped right under skin and got to her heart. "You would, you big sap." She took a breath, forced the lightness of her words. "Does Buffy know you're such a sap? Because if she doesn't, I feel like I should give her fair warning, you know?" And good, she was doing good, tone flippant, not revealing a single sliver of her broken heart.  
  
"Buffy?" he asked, as if he didn't understand. And damn, he was going to make her do this. Make her say it, even though she didn't want to.  
  
"Yeah. I… know how you feel about her… and I saw you…" She paused, pushed past the hurt to find the words. "With her. After. And now that we're through this, now that she's back and she's right again…" She hesitated, drew a deep breath and shook her head, small smile forming on her lips.   
  
Even when she'd been a traitor she hadn't been able to lie convincingly. And now that she wasn't a traitor anymore, she found she didn't have the heart to even try.  
  
"Funny thing." She tilted her head to the side, weighing the words even as they left her lips. "I know what I'm _supposed_ to say, but part of me is glad we saved her… and the other part…" She lifted her shoulders, shrugged, kept the troubled look from her face with sheer effort of will. "The other part thinks maybe you and me would've been a lot better off if we hadn't."  
  
He shuffled inside his coat, and she couldn't see his face, because she didn't want to look.   
  
"You really think that?"  
  
"Don't you?" she countered, barriers going up again as she raised her eyes to him. "Angel, your curse is gone, your soul is permanent. And then, on the one hand, you've got Buffy, the great golden hero, your first true love; the one girl you loved more than anything, the girl you could never be with because of the curse attached to your soul. And on the other hand you've got me. The girl who's never given you anything. The girl who's tried to kill you on more than one occasion."   
  
"Well, there was that one time you only tried to turn me evil," he offered with a faint smile.  
  
The corner of her mouth twitched; the ghost of a bitter smile, and then she laughed, despite herself. "Yeah, there was that." Silence held for a moment, a comforting moment that almost felt… good. Then the rough smile vanished and she shrugged again. "But that's exactly what I'm talking about. Not much of a choice, when you look at it that way."  
  
He blinked, confused, and she suddenly wanted to punch him right between his dark little-boy eyes. "Between you and Buffy?"  
  
"God_damn_ it! Can't you ever just let things go, Angel?" she exploded. "Do you always have to poke and prod and get the maximum brooding potential out of a situation?" Couldn't he see how much she hated this? Her face hardened and she brought her chin up, storms brewing on her brow and in the darkness of her eyes. "Haven't you been paying attention?"  
  
"Haven't you?" he asked with a challenging incline of his head.  
  
"What the hell are you talking about?" she asked, anger flaring. She took a step forward, flung the crossbow down, patience snapping like its bow string as it hit the floor. "I'm trying to make this easy for you! Easy for both of us! You wanna play dumb? Make this harder than it has to be? Fine. But I'm not playing."  
  
"Neither am I."  
  
She cocked her head at him, hands tightening into fists. Her heart strained in her chest and she beat it back with a force of will. "Then why are you still here?" Her voice was desperate, but with anger, she hoped, rather than the faint hope that still burned inside her.  
  
"Maybe because it isn't that simple."  
  
She threw back her head, uttered a mocking laugh. "Of course it's that simple. Do you think I'm stupid? Soul in place, Buffy's back. Doesn't take a rocket scientist to know where your heart is. You're not doing me any favors by pretending." Her voice turned icy, eyes frosty as they met his, and oh, she hadn't wanted to do it this way. "Just go, Angel," she said, voice quiet with defeat, still laced with anger. "Get out and don't make it any worse than it has to be."  
  
"You'd like it if it were that easy, wouldn't you, Faith?" he asked, taking another step closer to her. Dark eyes pinned her knowingly, and she hated them in that instant, hated that they always seemed to see right through her, no matter what mask she put in place. "If I just walked out on you and you could file me away under the same category as every other guy who ever hurt you. Safer that way. No risk that way. You get exactly what you want and you never even have to try. Never even have to care." His expression was dead serious, eyes burning, locked on hers, and he took another step. "Another broken dream to add to the pile for poor little Faith."  
  
"Fuck. You," she grated out, eyes flashing with fury.   
  
"Easier to let me walk away and have it be all my fault, isn't it? Then you can keep your perfect little screwed up world where you were right and everybody else was wrong. Is that what you are, Faith? A coward?"  
  
She brought her fist up and he caught it, expression never changing, eyes still boring into hers as he shoved her wrist down, let it go. "Because I thought there was more to you than that."  
  
She tossed her hair back, brought her shoulders up proudly. "What you see is what you get," she answered with a sneer.  
  
His expression changed like quicksilver as he took another step nearer to her, and she backed away, caught off guard by the sudden change. And damn him to hell for being who he was, for being able to look at her like that. For being able to look _through_ her like that.  
  
Eyes suddenly warm, face gentle and kind with understanding… and something more. Something she couldn't name that held her rooted to the spot despite her belligerence. He lifted his hand to her face, fingers pressed against the line of her jaw, thumb trailing down her cheek to brush against her lips.   
  
"You know what I see when I look at you?" he asked, voice low, caressing her like his fingertips. "I see a strong, beautiful woman. I see a heart that loves like no other, but never speaks the words because it can't. I see loyalty and honor and the determination to be better, to do right by the world because you've done it so wrong in the past." He leaned closer to her, bringing her chin up, making her look at him. "I look at you, and I see myself. I see someone who could share my life because it's the same as mine. And every day I'm afraid that you're going to figure out that you don't need me. That you'll understand you can do this all on your own. And every time I think it, it breaks my heart."  
  
"Angel," she whispered, and shuddered unwillingly against his hand. She didn't want this. He was making this hard, making it so that she didn't want him to go, and she knew he was going to leave. She'd been prepared for damned near anything. For him to tell her she was right and walk out on her, for him to be all mystery and ambiguity and leave her wondering, but never in a million years had she expected this. She was crumbling, melting before him as he slipped past her defenses with the sweetness of his touch, his voice. And she couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand the way it was going to hurt—how much it already hurt. "Angel… please. Just go."  
  
"I love Buffy," he answered, voice still gentle, so vulnerable that it made her heart ache. "I'll always love Buffy."  
  
"I know that!" she seethed, jerking away from his touch. "What the hell do you think I've been trying to say?"  
  
He paused for a moment, then continued on, voice still calm and gentle and infuriating. "But she could never be part of my world and be happy. It's not what she wants." He shook his head once, slow and sad.   
  
"Oh, I think it's exactly what she wants, Angel," Faith said through a bitter chuckle.   
  
"Buffy wants a normal life. It's what she's always wanted, no matter how much we love each other. I've always known that. It's the reason I left." He hesitated, then spoke again, even more softly. "She's not like you and me."  
  
"Yeah," Faith snorted. "You mean because she's never been evil?"  
  
"I mean she doesn't know what it's like to have failed… to regret. To want to be good because it's the only way you can make up for the ache inside your soul. Buffy is a hero, and she's never been anything else. She accepts me despite what I've done. She loves me. But you… you _understand_ me. You care about me _because_ you can see what I've done. You can _live_ with what I've done and what I might do again, and you can still touch me, knowing the truth of it." He shook his head slowly, and she was mesmerized by his eyes, his words, his fingers as they trailed again over her jaw line, so tender. "And if you want me to walk away from that, now that I can actually _have_ it… I will." His voice hardened a note, and his fingers pulled ever so slightly away, and she could feel his will sagging, could feel him pulling back, giving her a choice. "But not unless you tell me to."  
  
She didn't have to look into his eyes to know it was the truth; would have broken if she'd looked at him now. She knew it was true, knew it deep down in her bones, deep down in that dark, scary place where she cared far more than she wanted to. And it scared her more than anything ever had. For him to choose her… for them to be together; committed, solid… that was completely different than the borrowed time they'd been living on. Everything about him scared her. When she could only have part of him, it had been one thing. When she had expected to lose him, it had been safer. But he was here and he was touching her and telling her words that made her want to believe, words she could scarcely comprehend.  
  
And damn him for it. Damn him for all of it. He was right. She didn't _want_ a choice. She wanted black and white. She had wanted the truth she knew in her heart, and she had wanted to hear him say it. But now that he was there, that truth tasted an awful lot like fear, and she was choking on it. She pressed her lips together, trying to kill the taste, and bowed her head.  
  
"You know," she said, voice quiet and wry. "Back there, when me and B were in the spirit-world, I think I actually died for a second. And you know; it wasn't bad. Kind of peaceful, really. Quiet, dark. I made my big hero stand and went out in a blaze of glory. Felt like I finally knew who I was and what I was supposed to do." Her mouth curved in an ironic smile. "Like I became one with the universe and all that Zen bullshit. And for just a second, I thought… you know; if I could go back now, if I got another chance, everything would be different. Everything would be right."   
  
She shook her head slightly. "I guess it's easy to think like that when you're staring death in the eye." One shoulder came up in a half-shrug. "And here I am, and wow, no big shock. Everything isn't right." A hesitation, and she let her shoulder fall. "But it's better. I know I'm not automatically forgiven just for dying. Not even for saving the world. I might not ever be forgiven for what I did—might not ever forgive myself. But it doesn't matter." She lifted her eyes to his. "I'm not afraid of myself anymore."  
  
She let her eyes fall away, turned her face to the side, felt her chest tighten. And oh, she really didn't want to do this. Apocalypse, death; and still, just uttering a few simple words seemed harder than any of that. They twisted in her chest, searing her with truth, and still she couldn't force herself to speak. She could hold them back, she knew. Swallow the words, choke on them, keep the truth from him just like she'd always kept her heart from everyone. It should have been easy; she'd been doing it so long that it was second nature… and yet she couldn't make the feeling go, couldn't banish it from her heart. And she owed him this much, at least, after all they'd been through. She owed it to herself.  
  
She licked her lips, took a deep breath. Tried to speak, failed. Her mouth trembled, and she pushed against her reluctance with anger, felt something vital give way inside as she forced the lock from her fear. She took another deep breath, straightened, and reached for her tattered cloak of bravery.  
  
"I'm not afraid of myself anymore, Angel…" She folded her arms over herself self-consciously, gave a slow, simple shrug, the admission coming free with stinging pain like a barb pulled from her flesh. "But I'm terrified of this."   
  
She could feel him looking at her, could almost feel the weight of his gaze against her skin, could imagine the intense look on his face as easily as she could have seen it if she had lifted her eyes a few inches.  
  
"So am I," he answered, and his voice nearly cracked beneath the weight of emotion, so sincere and heartfelt. The sound of it hit her like a bolt in the chest, piercing her heart and giving her lungs pause. She closed her eyes against the truth of it.  
  
Long seconds passed and she searched for words, and for once it wasn't that she had none; it was that she had too many. Too many things she wanted to say, too many things she felt, and she could feel the moment slipping away, could feel her chance passing by. His fingers trembled against her, and she felt them wilt, felt him begin to draw away. Felt the gossamer of her dreams begin to fade, felt everything, the _only_ thing that had been right in all of this, begin to fade.  
  
She remembered the night when he'd touched her like this, after the spell, when he'd told her he loved her. Remembered how terrified she'd been as she'd stood upon the precipice of belief… and leaped. Remembered how it had hurt when he'd let her go, when he'd let her fall. All this time she'd spent thinking that he was the one with big barriers, that Buffy was just another brick in the walls between them. And now that he'd taken them all down, now that he'd opened himself to her, she discovered that once again, it was her. All her.   
  
Fingertips grazed her skin and then were gone, and she felt her heart go with them.  
  
She reached out, caught his slipping hand. "No." His fingers faltered and she pressed them tight against her cheek, holding them there as she opened her eyes. "Stay."  
  
He said nothing. Only looked at her with that way he had that made her feel like he was staring into her soul.  
  
"Angel," she said again, eyes flickering up to his, emotions crashing through walls and spinning her world upside down. "I…" And it all welled up on the tip of her tongue, bright and burning and so difficult to say.  
  
And he only shook his head, dark eyes deep with knowledge of everything she hadn't said, for everything that passed through her. "Shh…" he said, pressing his fingers against her lips. "I know."  
  
She let go, leaning into the kiss of his fingers, eyes closing. His fingers slipped away and his lips replaced them with sweet, aching understanding.  
  
"I know," he breathed.  
  



	21. Mortal Ground 2 Chapter 21: Closedown

CHAPTER 21: CLOSEDOWN  
  
But older than me now, more constant more real  
and the fur, and the mouth, and the innocence;  
turned to hair and contentment that hangs in abasement.   
A woman now standing   
where once  
there was only a girl  
  
            ~Last Dance, The Cure  
  
Close to the edge, down by the river.  
Down at the end, round by the corner.  
Seasons will pass you by,  
Now that it's all over and done,  
Called to the seed, right to the sun.  
Now that you find, now that you're whole.  
Seasons will pass you by,  
I get up, I get down.  
I get up, I get down.  
I get up, I get down.  
  
            ~ Closer To The Edge IV (Seasons of Man), Yes  
  
______________________________________________  
  
  
After that, there were only a few more stops. One last night in the arms of Sunnydale, and tomorrow she'd be gone. Called to mind more than a couple of songs.  
  
Tomorrow. A few last stops. And somehow, Faith dreaded leaving here even more than she'd dreaded coming. Because there was only _one_ of those 'last stops' that made her heart curl up in fear and terror. Only one that made her soul blanch; made her stomach churn. And in true Slayer spirit, she was going to do that one first.  
  
Last time pays for all.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
It was a cheerful day. The kind in early spring where the light was like magic in early afternoon. The kind that made even the surliest heart want to seek out the ripening green hills and lay their burdens down by a river; to shake off their cynicism and hardened shell, if only for a moment to dare to imagine and dream. The kind made for lovers and young children and old folk who sat on their porches and remembered younger days. It was the kind of afternoon that seemed to come straight from the Powers themselves, blessedly turning everyone free for just a moment to enjoy their lives. Outside, fluffy white clouds were adrift in clearest blue. Green fields were draped in the mantle of burgeoning flowers. And all beneath that magical light that somehow made all right with the world. Gorgeous. Perfect.  
  
There were probably even birds singing, somewhere.  
  
And all Faith could think was how completely wrong it was.  
  
"So…"   
  
Buffy's eyes were steel, her face carved of marble in the golden light that glinted through her living room windows, and she was a statue carved to honor the heavens; the very visage of an angry goddess scorned.  
  
"…you're going to LA."  
  
It wasn't a question, and Faith could almost hear the rustling of leaves, feel herself taking that final step just before the ground fell away into a pitfall.  
  
"Yeah." Faith put her hands on her hips and side swiped that angry stare before her gaze skittered past it. "I figure," her voice twisted in the wind as she tried to hit a casual note and came off sounding more nervous than ever, "Sunnydale's got its resident Slayer back. And you and me both know this town isn't big enough for the two of us." She shrugged and tried for a charming smile.  
  
Buffy stared at her in silence for a moment, then folded her arms over her chest, eyes like flecks of cold metal. "Guess you finally won," she said, voice bitter and hard.  
  
Faith froze, heart seeming to pause in her chest, and all her wishes, all her hopes died in that instant, slamming together in one painful lump that lodged in her throat and slowly slid down to the pit of her stomach. And still, she wasn't surprised. She'd known it was going to be like this. But she'd hoped, oh, she'd hoped.  
  
"B," she began, then stopped, changing her tone. "Buffy." She hitched up her shoulders, willed herself to look the other Slayer in the eye. "It's not about winning. Not anymore."  
  
"No, you just get to take my place for a while, grab some of the glory and then strut off into the night with Angel. Sounds like everything you always wanted, to me."  
  
Faith stiffened, feeling threads of anger snaking through her veins, hot and invigorating as it pushed aside the strange numbness that had invaded her. And this was better, this was… familiar. "Look B. I came back here to help, to do the right thing for once in my life—"  
  
"Yeah, because you're so noble and pure," the blonde Slayer sneered.  
  
Faith took a step forward, eyes flashing, heart beating faster with a familiar heat. "And _you_ were so noble and pure when you were running around screwing Spike and trying to end the world."  
  
Buffy reeled back as if Faith had slapped her, eyes wide with shock, lips thinning to a pale, compressed line. Her voice shook with outrage and tears. "That wasn't me."  
  
"Part of it was. If you—" Faith stopped, bit off the words with quick snap as she closed her mouth and shook her head, dark hair tumbling about her shoulders. She put a hand to her forehead, squeezed her eyes shut for a second, gathered her composure. "Look. I don't want to fight." She took a deep breath, wondering if she could ever find the words to make things right between them. "What is it with us, anyway?" she wondered aloud. "We can't be in the same room for five minutes without wanting to tear each other apart."  
  
"Competition," Buffy answered, expression still stiff and unforgiving.  
  
"Buffy…" she faltered for words, and they left her mouth haltingly, their truth discovered for the first time. "What happened with me and Angel… I never meant for it to work out this way. I mean yeah, I wanted him—I mean duh, who wouldn't—but I didn't set out to 'steal' him. We just, we spent a lot of time together, and you guys have been apart a long time, and things just sort of…" she shrugged, feeling lame even as she did it. "Happened."  
  
Buffy laughed bitterly, every line of her face etched with mockery. "Oh yeah. You just happened to be a Slayer, so you just _happened_ to hook up with my friends, and you just _happened_ to fall in love with the guy who loves me, and he just _happens_ to love you back. That sounds like a lot of coincidences to me. How about you?" she challenged, mouth curling upward in a snarl.  
  
"Are we really going to argue about this? Like a couple of high school girls over a guy you haven't even been with for two years? Buffy, I know you've been through a lot—"  
  
"You don't know anything!" Buffy thundered, her whole body trembling with rage.  
  
Faith pulled herself up, folded her arms and shook her head. "You'd like to think that, wouldn't you? Poor little Buffy, all alone on her little island of pain where no one can reach her." The words that Angel had so recently spoken to her echoed in her head, made her realize suddenly the synchronicity in all of this. "You'd like to think that, but you know it's not true. Maybe we haven't been through the same things, B, but I know pain. I know you've had a lot of it. I also know you've had more love than anyone I've ever known, and you ought to be damned grateful for what you've got, because some of us never even get that."  
  
"What? Because you went evil you think you know what it's like to hurt? Please!" Buffy scoffed.  
  
"No, I know because I went through an entire life with no one who ever gave a shit about me except an evil guy who turned into a snake. And you, a little. And Angel, a little more. But the Mayor was all I had then, that was real, that was _mine_."  
  
"And that's what matters, isn't it?" Buffy asked. "What belongs to you. That's what this is all about."  
  
"I already told you that it isn't. It used to be, but not anymore. But I don't expect you to understand. You, who have people who love you so much they'd go into battle for you, die for you, bring you back from the dead. You have all that and it's like it doesn't even matter to you. You just want to bitch and gripe and mope over the one thing you _don't_ have."  
  
"You. Bitch. You have no idea." Buffy's eyes were cold, lifeless mirrors that reflected nothing except Faith's own image back at her. And Faith knew those eyes, knew that defense. Knew it all too well. "You don't know what I went through. My mother dying, Dawn, diving into the portal—"  
  
"But I do know." Somehow, she found the strength to meet Buffy's eyes, to make her understand. "I know a little, anyway. I know what came to me in my dreams, when I was you. And I know how much it sucked." Faith paused, took a deep breath, ran a hand through her hair, shook her head. "I know that when your mom died, your heart broke in two and ever since you've felt alone in the world. I know that when the portal opened you were scared; terrified of what you were about to do, but did it anyway, because you weren't going to let your sister die, too, real or not. I know that when you died, you found peace, and then you got yanked back into this world un-whole, and crazy—and I know a whole hell of a lot about 'crazy'. And now you feel terrible about everything you did, but at least you've got an excuse, which is something I _never_ had.  So, yeah, I know about all that—but Buffy, this isn't _about_ that. This is about you and me and Angel. And I think you're being a little—"  
  
Buffy held up a hand as if to ward off Faith's words, then brought it down to touch her forehead as she wrestled with her conflicting emotions, the battle visible in the lines of her face. For a moment, Faith wasn't sure if the other girl was going to cry or punch her in the face, and either way, she figured it equaled about the same thing. At length, Buffy's hand moved from her forehead to cover her mouth and she shook her head, tension leaving her body in a deep, slow exhalation.  
  
"No. I'm being a lot," Buffy said with a heavy sigh, turning away. She fidgeted, paused as she tried to focus her thoughts.   
  
Faith opened her mouth, thought the better of her retort, and closed it again.  
  
"I know," Buffy said, after a moment. "I was dead, and Angel mourned me, and things are different now… I guess I just always thought…" she shook her head slowly, eyes raised toward the ceiling and heavens, gazing on a memory of hope for the future, a cherished memory that she was beginning to realize had only been a dream. "It's just… it's Angel, which always equals melodrama and big heartache."  
  
"Tell me about it," Faith muttered.  
  
Buffy gave a single, soft laugh that had nothing to do with humor. "Funny thing is; I always knew he liked you, even back then. Part of the reason I hated you." Faith lifted her eyes to Buffy in disbelief, but the Buffy kept her back toward the other Slayer, and Faith could only see the shake of her head as she spoke. "You two have so much in common. I guess I'm not even really surprised." Her voice was still bitter, but resigned now, shaded with the ghost of memory.  
  
Afternoon sunlight cut through the curtains in golden shafts, lighting Buffy's living room with an almost otherworldly glow. And Faith remembered the times when they were younger, when she'd sat on that couch and they'd talked almost like friends. Remembered how jealous she'd been of everything Buffy had, how she'd longed for it until she'd tried to steal it all for her own. Remembered how every grain of caring and friendship she got felt like some kind of personal victory, even as she'd grown to hate and love this woman that was bonded to her by something deeper than blood. And now she had what she'd wanted, in a way. Her life was finally becoming something that she'd seen only the idea of in Buffy's—and here was Buffy, resurrected and hurting, her life in shambles. And she knew that once, it would have brought her some kind of furious glee. Now, she only felt sad, hollowed out and smooth inside, like a stone rolled in water until its edges were gone.  
  
She took a halting step forward. "Buffy, I'm…"  
  
Buffy turned on her. "Don't tell me you're sorry."  
  
She backed up mentally, reassessed what she'd been about to say. "I'm sorry that you're hurting," she said simply.  
  
Buffy shrugged, face twisting in knowing smile that reeked of cynicism. "It's not all that different than it was before. Little sister to take care of, world in peril, big evil and big hurt." Her fingers twined in the wool of her sweater, as if seeking comfort there.  
  
And standing there in that place of memory, Faith felt her heart break a little as she looked at Buffy, tiny blonde girl in an oversized beige sweater, looking as lost and forlorn as Faith had ever seen her. "I know there's nothing I can do, but it if I could…"  
  
Buffy gave her a distant smile. "You already did. You gave me my life back." Her hand fell back to her side, and she shrugged faintly. "Now I just have to figure out what I'm gonna do with it."  
  
"You will," Faith said, with confidence. "If anyone can figure this out, it's you."  
  
"Yeah." Buffy echoed Faith with less confidence.   
  
An awkward moment of silence passed between them, and then Buffy's brows drew together as she rummaged to find a smile. "And I figure, hey, if this Slaying thing doesn't work out, there's always reality television."  
  
And if Faith was startled by Buffy's sudden change in temperament, it didn't show in her face. Quick jokes to hide her heart were her stock in trade, and they rarely surprised her from others. "You could kick ass on 'Survivor'," she agreed with a grin.  
  
Buffy's smile curved, cutting deeper, almost real despite the tinge of bitterness. "Or talk shows. 'Slayers and the evil vampires that love them'—"  
  
"Next Jerry Springer," Faith finished with a laugh.  
  
And there it was, that bond between them that Faith felt so sharp and clear when their eyes met and they laughed together. Sisterly, motherly; something like family, and yet something else entirely. It was a brief moment, always a fleeting moment, and yet there were few moments she remembered better, or that were closer to her heart. For an instant she wished it could always be like this; that they could go through life side by side, slaying, fighting, loving. Like family.  
  
"Faith. Did I thank you for saving me?"  
  
"No."  
  
Buffy gave a slow smile and nodded once.   
  
"When I can… I will," she promised.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
She was packed. The battered black leather bag she'd borrowed from Giles represented the few outfits that weren't ripped to shreds or stained with blood, a few crosses, some stakes, holy water and one or two worn photographs she'd never admit to owning.  
  
A good Slayer travels light, she thought and smiled, tucking the last stubborn corner of a pair of jeans inside.  
  
Giles hung up the phone as she zipped the bag and turned briskly toward her. "That was the Council."  
  
"Yeah? They call to apologize?" she asked with a smirk, hitching the bag up onto her back.  
  
"Not, not exactly."  
  
"Well damn, there goes the trust fund, huh?"  
  
He smiled faintly, shook his head. "They were, surprisingly, polite and supportive."  
  
Faith blinked, did a double-take. "Guess Tenth did a little more than put them back on the plane to England."  
  
"I think they were rather impressed with what you did," he said, blinking as if he didn't quite believe it, himself. "They're still willing to support you, if you want it. It seems that Donner's been relieved of his position."  
  
"Huh." She paused, swaying back and forth against the counterweight of her bag. "Well. It's something to think about, anyway."  
  
A pause, and then a shifting of posture and expression that let her know something difficult was coming. "You're going to LA, then?" he asked, trying to sound casual.  
  
"Yeah." She glanced away and then down self-consciously, drew up her shoulders.   
  
He nodded, then slipped his hands into his pockets, turning slightly away from her. "You know, you're welcome to stay here."  
  
Her eyes surged up to him, and she felt a smile stretch over her face, one of the first genuine smiles she'd felt in months. Then she smirked, shook her head slightly, letting her eyes tumble away. "Come on Giles, you know I'd never fit here. Never really have. But especially not now." She left the word 'Buffy' unspoken, but it hovered there between them with certain knowledge.   
  
She cleared her throat. "Not that I don't appreciate everything you guys have done for me. I mean, being here with you guys these couple of months, it's…" she hesitated, shrugged. "It's been really cool."  
  
He raised his brows at her in polite disbelief, as if he might not have heard her correctly, and his voice was deadpan with sarcasm. "Really?"  
  
She caught his eye, held it with mirth, and they both chuckled together. She ran a hand through her hair and tossed it back with a smile. "Oh yeah."  
  
"All the fighting, the constant running, suspicion, the death, killing, betrayals and losses?"  
  
She shifted uncomfortably, and her face dimmed, thinking about it all. Beatrice, Daeonira, Angel, Buffy, Xander, Willow, Spike, all the obstacles she'd faced, all the times she'd nearly died or given up. Her head fell to the side as she considered. "Well, it definitely wasn't boring…" she said, a small smile playing about her lips as she looked at him. "But I was more talking about the second chance."  
  
He sobered at that, and nodded, understanding in his eyes. He smiled just slightly, but this time it was warm with emotion. "We'll miss you."  
  
"Maybe _you_ will", she said, still holding on to her smile, but it was tinged with a touch of sadness now, regret, wishing. But she didn't want to dwell on it. Didn't want to draw this out and make a big deal. Didn't want to think too much about how she was actually going to miss the smell of books, the muddy yellows and comforting browns of Giles' home. The way his very presence made her feel safe, comforted. Nope, didn't want to think about that at all.  
  
"Hey," she said, demeanor changing in an instant, smile becoming playful as she considered him. "You're not gonna get all sappy and try to hug me or anything, are you?"  
  
His brow crinkled with a wry chuckle. "I'll try to restrain myself."  
  
They stood there for a moment in silence, him wearing those no nonsense clothes that only he could look natural and comfortable in, lit by the dimming sunlight, every line in his face accentuated and somehow all the more beautiful for it, and she drank it in, committed it all to memory to be remembered in times when she was less comforted. Damn. She was going to miss him. He'd done so much, meant so much. She couldn't even begin to find the words.   
  
The silence stretched, and just as she was thinking it was time to go, that everything had been said despite how much more she wanted to say, he reached out, took her hand, and met her eyes with the sweetest, most intense look she'd ever seen on his face for her.  
  
"Thank you, Faith."  
  
She squeezed his fingers, smiled back. Maybe she could find some words, after all.  
  
"Couldn't have done it without you, G."  
  
It was enough. More than enough. Odd, but like Buffy, she'd never needed many words with this man. He just… understood, somehow.  
  
He squeezed her hand one last time, then let his fingers slip through hers. The silence hung a moment more, and then he drew himself up, composing his face into something resembling stuffy-Watcher-mode.   
  
"Faith… Before you go, I'd like to ask one more thing of you."  
  
"I know," she grinned, swallowing against the sudden lump in her throat. "Don't call you G. I'll try to restrain myself," she said in a bad imitation of an English accent.  
  
"Hmn?" He was adorable, and he didn't even know it. "Oh yes, that, too," he said as if finding his place after being distracted. "But actually, I wanted to ask you if you'd come to the Magic Box with me one more time."  
  
The moment of understanding faded fast and she stiffened, guard going up. "Why?" she asked, voice thick with suspicion. And she hated how easy it was to fall into old habits, but she hated this more. This was hard enough. "You know I hate this whole goodbye thing, Giles. I've got no need to make a big exit. I'm sure everyone'll be just fine with me sneaking out."  
  
"Oh…er… no… not that," he said, flustered. "I, ah, had a few questions about some of the monsters you fought—Daeonira in particular—that I wanted to confirm against the books there."  
  
She stared at him.  
  
"It's very important," he said, offended and condescending in the polite manner that only the British possessed.  
  
She folded her arms and looked at him speculatively.  
  
He blinked and gave her a pleading look. "Humor me?"   
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"I'm going to kill you," Faith murmured out of the corner of her pasted on smile.  
  
Giles raised his shoulders and adjusted his glasses. "Well what the bloody hell was I supposed to say? 'You've got to come, it's your surprise going away party'?" he whispered fervently. "Besides, if you hadn't, Anya would never have shut up about it."  
  
"Anya?" Faith echoed in a surprised whisper, turning to look at him as much as she could. "This was her idea?"  
  
"Yes," Giles answered, agitated. "Since she and Xander are going to get… married… she seems to think she has to learn the proper human customs for every rite of passage."  
  
"Okay!" Anya said loudly, bustling into the room. "I've got the cake. Is everyone ready?'  
  
Faith eyes went wide. "We're having _cake_?"  
  
She could almost feel Giles' embarrassed shrug.  
  
"Um, An, ready for what?" Xander asked.  
  
"To sing," Anya said, as if it should have been obvious. "Isn't that what people do at gatherings like this? Gather around a confectionary nightmare of a cake that will never allow me to fit into a proper wedding dress and sing some sort of inane song?"  
  
"That's… just at birthday parties, honey."  
  
"Oh, and Bat Mitzvah's," Willow supplied with an awkward smile.  
  
"So there's no song?" Anya appeared distressed. "I thought all ceremonies had a song."  
  
"No song," Spike confirmed.  
  
"Thank heaven," Giles murmured.  
  
"But hey," Faith said, stepping forward. "We can still have…" She looked at said confectionary nightmare dubiously. "…cake."  
  
"Without a song?" Anya asked, worried and agitated.  
  
"Absolutely," Angel said, stepping up next to Faith.  
  
"Really?" Anya asked, eyes lighting up. Then they narrowed with suspicion. "You're not just being nice to me to get out of paying your rent, are you?"  
  
"Hey," Spike said, malicious grin lighting up his face. "Angel could sing us a rousing chorus of Copa Cabana. Remember how much he loved _that_."  
  
Angel shot Spike a glare filled with daggers.  
  
"Yes!" Anya exclaimed, latching onto the idea with luminous dark eyes. "That would be perfect." She made shooing motions with her hands at Angel. "Now get on with it. This cake was expensive and it's going to be below optimum cutting temperature in three minutes."  
  
Angel blinked, stared flatly at the room. "I'm not singing."  
  
"Aw, Angel, come on," Faith said, stepping up to him and fluttering her eyelashes. "I'd just love to hear you hit that low note where he says—okay, I have no idea what he says, but I'd love to hear you sing it."  
  
"I can't sing," he protested, feebly.  
  
Cordelia cut her eyes at him and smirked. "Never stopped you at Caritas. 'Everybody Wang Chung' tonight?" she reminded him with mocking brows.  
  
"Hey." Angel's eyes narrowed. "You weren't there for that."  
  
"Some tales of horrible singing surpass bad and become legend," Cordelia deadpanned.  
  
"You sang 'Everybody Wang Chung'?" Faith asked in horrified disbelief.  
  
"Lorne told you about that?" he demanded, wounded.  
  
"Sing!" Anya commanded.  
  
"Yeah, come on Rico, sing." Spike lounged and smirked.  
  
Angel shoved his hands in his pockets and hoped his surly look was enough to make them leave him alone.  
  
It wasn't.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"Oh, come on, you weren't that bad," Faith said, practically falling into him as she laughed.  
  
"Yes I was," Angel murmured, having retreated into brood mode mere seconds after he'd finished the last repetition of the chorus.  
  
"Okay, you really were, but still—"  
  
"Um… Faith?" Tara asked, voice timid and posture tentative as she sidled up to them. Willow and Dawn trailed just behind Tara, and despite herself, Faith tensed, trying not to frown as she turned to them.   
  
"Yeah?" she greeted, her tone more stand offish than she would have liked.  
  
Tara wilted beneath her suspicious gaze, and Faith mentally kicked herself. How did Red deal with that wounded puppy dog look all the time? Then she blinked, suddenly aware of her own thought, and bit back a chuckle as she cut a quick glance toward her own wounded puppy dog, who stood, vigilant and expressionless as ever, at her side.  
  
"We um…" Tara faltered a moment, took a breath, found her place. "We didn't have enough time to g-get you a, um, going away present or anything—"  
  
Faith waved her arms through the air and blew it off with an inward sigh of relief. "Nah, it's totally cool." God, she'd been worried about a confrontation. That, she could have handled. But gifts? No way.  
  
"B-but we did, um, get you a card." Tara smiled hesitantly and held out an embossed yellow and white envelope.  
  
Faith stared at the little water-colored piece of Hallmark in disbelief for so long that Tara tucked a lock of hair behind one ear and glanced away, embarrassed. Finally, Faith reached out, hand hesitating, hovering over the card for a moment before she took it.  
  
It felt awkward in her hands as she pulled the card free, and she paused, stared at the outside of the card as if she'd never seen one before. The outside was non-descript, some irrelevant bit of abstract art, but it held her fascination nonetheless, remembering the last time she'd gotten one of these. A lacy bit of paper wreathed in pink and signed by the Mayor, telling her how proud he was to have her for a daughter. It was the one thing she was sorry she didn't still have; the one tangible memory of him that she'd ever possessed.  
  
Suddenly aware of the eyes upon her, she shifted the light weight of paper in her hands and opened it, reading the inside.  
  
_Good luck_, it read. And it was signed _Thank you_, with half a dozen signatures following the postscript.  
  
Faith cleared her throat, found her voice. "Wow. You even got everyone to sign it." And it wasn't quite the note of congeniality she'd hoped for, but what the hell was she _supposed_ to say?  
Tara's eyes stuttered along with her lovely mouth. "W-we w-wanted to say…"  
  
"Thank you," Willow finished, stepping forward. "We _all_ wanted to say thank you." The witch said again, holding Faith's eyes for a long moment. Then she glanced away, awkward shyness slipping over her again. "I know it's not much, but…"  
  
"It's not like we were ever best friends or anything," Faith finished. When Willow flinched, she shook her head with just the ghost of a smile. "No, it's cool. I know." She hesitated a moment, dredged up the words and pushed aside her reluctance. "Thanks. It's really nice."  
  
Willow nodded and Faith didn't know what else to say, so she looked down at the card again.  
  
"You even got B to sign it."  
  
"Yeah," Dawn piped up, her voice a little too bright. "Buffy said to tell you she was sorry she couldn't be here. But she's still, you know, recovering."  
  
"It's cool, Pip," Faith said with a shrug, touched by the younger girl's attempt to smooth things over. "We already talked."  
  
Dawn smiled, and there were a dozen emotions tied up in that smile—troubled memories of the past, gratitude for having her sister back, hope for the future. It wasn't the blithe, adoring smile of the little girl who'd once looked up to her with such admiration, but it was sincere enough, and Faith gave a slow smile in return.  
  
"Well, um, good luck," Tara said, after a moment.  
  
"Yeah. You too." She paused, cleared her throat, and forced herself to look at them. God she was so bad with moments like this. She knew her heart wasn't going to break for leaving here, and she hadn't thought she was going to miss them in any big way. But somewhere along this whole crazy Hellmouth ride, they'd become part of her life, had started to mean something to her, and she supposed she was going to miss them all a little bit, after all. And then… for them to do this… she couldn't begin to explain the way it all made her feel. But it felt good, she knew that.  
  
"You guys take care of yourselves," she said with sincerity, and one corner of her mouth pulled up in a sad smile.   
  
"We will," Willow said and smiled back. They all gave a final nod, then made their way across the room.  
  
Faith watched them go, then turned to Angel, greeting card held between her middle and index finger. "That was… bizarre," she said with a shake of her head.  
  
Angel blinked. "I thought it was kind of sweet."  
  
"Well…" She struggled with the idea, and it occurred to her that that was wrong about it in the first place. "_Yeah_," she said, as if that one word should explain everything.  
  
"They appreciate what you did," Angel said with a shrug. "I mean, maybe you'll never be good friends, but they've spent a lot of time with you. You helped them, healed Buffy. It's not so strange."  
  
"I guess not," she said, still sounding doubtful. If anyone had told her a week ago that she'd be standing here like this, saying goodbye and being thanked and feeling like maybe, at long last, she'd finally proven herself, she'd have probably laughed in their face. Okay, so it wasn't some sappy Disney movie ending where everything turned out perfect and she was completely forgiven and everyone hoisted her up on their shoulders and sang her praises and rained showers of love and flowers on her, but as endings went, it wasn't bad. She would have hated that, anyway. This felt… right, strange as it was.   
  
"I guess I'm…" She trailed off, shrugged, and then her voice grew stronger as she regained her composure. "I'm just not good with Hallmark moments, you know? Or… being appreciated," she said with a snort.  
  
"Join the club," Angel muttered.  
  
"No, wait," she said, looking down at the card again. "I take it back. This is still weird. On the Sunnydale weirdness scale? _This_ goes off the charts."  
  
"Hey. Faith." Xander stepped up next to them, grabbed some chips out of a bowl and leaned back, stuffing each one into his mouth in a slow rhythm of chomping and swallowing.  
  
"Or maybe I spoke too soon," Faith muttered before turning away from Angel.  
  
"Hey Xander," she replied, frowning. "What's up?"  
  
He put the last chip in his mouth, chewed, swallowed, washed it down with the beer in his hand. He shifted, opened his mouth, shrugged, closed it again. "I just wanted to say… you know… thanks for helping us out."  
  
"Wow." Faith paused, considered that. She shook her head, unable to help herself, and leaned in for a closer look. "Did that hurt?" she asked with a grin.  
  
"Hey, I'm a big man, I can own up to my—" he started to protest, then broke off with a look of realization. He nodded his head to the side, shrugged with one shoulder. "Okay, it hurt a little bit," he admitted.  
  
"Well… you're…" she cleared her throat, so unused to the words as she was. And oh, she was going to kill Giles so many different ways. "You're welcome. And thanks for… you know. Backing me up." She paused, smiled. "And for telling me where the hell to get off when I needed it."  
  
"That hurt?" he asked.  
  
"Little bit." She smirked.  
  
He paused, licked his lips, gave a nervous smile. "This is awkward, huh?"  
  
"Oh _hell _yeah," she answered with a laugh.  
  
He nodded, then drew his shoulders up. "Well. Then I should probably make up some lame excuse about how I should go… have more cake."  
  
She gave him a final smile and nodded her head once. "See you, Xander."  
  
"Yeah." He hesitated, looked at Angel. "Angel," he said by way of goodbye.  
  
"Xander," Angel replied in the same stiff tone.  
  
"What? No hug goodbye for Angel?" Spike asked as he wandered over.  
  
Xander stopped long enough to glare at him.  
  
"Ah well, maybe later then," Spike said with a wink, and Xander opened his mouth, as if about to say something, then rolled his eyes and walked off. Triumphant, Spike turned, leaned against the table in the spot Xander had so recently vacated, and leered at Faith.   
  
"So, Slayer. Can I tempt you for one last indulgence of sin?"  
  
"She's not interested, Spike," Angel said, glowering.  
  
"In a smoke?" Spike asked with obviously feigned innocence, pulling a cigarette from his duster and holding it up before the mocking twinkle in his blue eyes.  
  
"I can speak for myself, thanks." Faith slapped Angel on the shoulder and he overbalanced slightly, resuming his stance against the wall with as much dignity as he could muster. "Be right back," she said with overdone sweetness, then sauntered to the back door.  
  
Spike grinned at Angel over his shoulder before the door slammed shut behind them.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
"Look at you," Spike sneered, lighting his cigarette. His face flashed orange, highlighting his mocking grin for a moment before disappearing behind a cloud of smoke. "Got your little card," He nodded at the scrap of white paper still tucked in her hand. "Got your cake, your party. Regular little Miss High Society. Surprised you're not too good to have a smoke in the back with the unrepentant vampire."  
  
"Fuck off, Spike," she said with a grin, in too good a mood to give in to his teasing. "Besides, you're not so unrepentant. You _did_ help save the world."  
  
"You just shut your mouth," he warned, tucking his lighter into the pocket of his duster and raising a threatening finger.  
  
She laughed and pushed her hands into the pockets of her jean jacket, taking a few steps out into the night. "Don't worry. I promise not to tell."  
  
Spike followed behind with shuffling steps, and they walked in silence for a minute or two, Spike puffing on his cigarette, Faith staring up at the stars.  
  
"You're too good for him, you know?"  
  
"But not for you?" she asked, brows quirking.  
  
"Nah. _I'm _too good for _you_," he said and sniffed.  
  
She snorted, shook her head and sat down on an old box near a dumpster. "And to think, I'm actually gonna _miss_ you."   
  
"It would never have worked, luv. You, out saving the world all the time, me, snarking and telling you what a piss poor job you're doing." He walked over to her, plopped down on the box next to her, and exhaled into the cool night air. "Was a time, though, it could've been magic."  
  
She turned to him with a half-smile, brows raised in disbelief. "You think?"  
  
He considered for a moment, staring up at the night sky. "No," he said, looking back to her with smirk. "We'd have probably killed each other way before then. And you know, if I ever got this chip out, it'd be curtains for you, for certain."  
  
"Yeah. I'd like to see you try," she snorted.  
  
"Oh, it would," he promised, still smirking. "But." He brought up his shoulders, took a drag of his cigarette, shrugged. "I'd probably make you, anyway. Just for kicks," he added quickly.  
  
She plucked the cigarette from his mouth, took a deep drag and wedged it back between his lips. Dark eyes stared deep into blue as she slowly exhaled into his face, smoke curling over his angular features.  
  
"Just for kicks," she echoed.  
  
"Yeah," he said, puffing up after a split second of hesitation. He drew deep from his cigarette and blew the smoke back at her with petulance. "Just for kicks."  
  
"Sap."  
  
He drew an indignant breath around the filter. "Bitch."  
  
"Jerk."  
  
"Trollop."  
  
"That's as close to a hug as we're gonna get, right?"  
  
"Damned right," he shot back.  
  
Faith leaned back and smiled up at the stars.  
  
*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *  
  
The drive to Los Angeles was longer than she remembered, and after the brief small talk about how nice it was of Cordelia to take Connor back to LA, it left entirely too much time for Angel to peer nervously over the steering wheel at her between switching radio stations.  
  
"So…" he finally said, clearing his throat. "You're sure about this?"  
  
She gave him a sidelong glance in the dim dashboard light, whimsical smile painted with faint green luminescence. "Helluva time to ask me that."  
  
"Well," he hedged, shrugged one shoulder and ducking his head back toward the road in that annoyingly adorable way he had about him. "I just… want to make sure. You know… that this is what you really want."  
  
She sank back into the plush leather seat of the car, bringing her shoulders up. "What? Butt-kicking for goodness? I think I've got a little bit of experience in that area."  
  
He ducked his head downward a little, tucked his shoulder in, and she knew instantly that wasn't what he'd meant.  
  
"No… I meant… with us."  
  
She shifted in her seat, turned to him with a glib smile. "Well, I mean it's not like we're talking marriage or kids, here, right?"  
  
He cleared his throat again—never a good sign—then went on haltingly. "Well… I mean, kids are out. I mean… uh… there's Connor, but… I'm still a… vampire and all. But I guess… if everything worked out… if you wanted… maybe one day… you know… depending on… well… maybe—"  
  
She watched him wriggle like a worm on a hook and flashed him a grin. "Please don't make me have to jump out of the car."  
  
He sagged back in his seat. "Thank God."  
  
She laughed, sank back in her seat. "So, you got anything in here besides Manilow CD's?"  
  
"There's nothing wrong with Barry Manilow," he replied defensively.  
  
"Angel, Angel, Angel," she shook her head and heaved a regretful sigh. "The first step is admitting you have a problem."  
  
"I suppose you want to listen to Led Zepplin or something?" he asked dryly.  
  
"Do you even know that there was music made _after_ 1986?" She blinked and shuffled CD's. "We're gonna have to work on this." She stopped. Stared at the disc in her hand. "Angel. The Captain and Tenille?"   
  
"It came with the car," he answered, not looking at her.  
  
"Uh-huh." She grinned and selected a CD that wouldn't cause her actual physical pain to listen to, and pushed it into the player.  
  
"That's better," she said, sinking back in her seat. Minutes passed, and the road flew by, and the music swelled, and at last she leaned up, turning the sound down a notch.   
  
"So… what's it gonna be like in LA?"  
  
"Pretty much the same as here," he said with a shrug. "Except I'll be in charge."  
  
"Wanna bet?"  
  
"Leave me my illusions, okay?" he asked.  
  
She chuckled and leaned back again with a wry grin. "Vampire and Slayer; together again. What's your team gonna say?"  
  
"Oh…" he started out, light and breezy, and then just stopped. She watched the complexity of emotion that worked over his face, trying not to look like she was watching. "Everything they can possibly think of," he answered with a sigh.  
  
She blinked, considered that. "Sounds like fun," she quipped, deadpan.  
  
"You get used to it."  
  
She paused, frowning at the thought that hovered on the edge of her mind. "So… think they'll like me?" she asked, trying to keep her voice breezy.  
  
He reached across the seat, took her hand in his. "They're gonna love you," he said, glancing away from the road long enough to fix her with serious dark eyes. He focused back on the road ahead. "But it might take a while."  
  
So sweet. He was too damned sweet. He probably honestly believed what he was saying. And who knew? Maybe he was right.  
  
"I got time," she shrugged and let the feeling slide away. "Besides," she couldn't resist. "Since I'm gonna be in charge and all, it doesn't really matter if they like me, right?"  
  
He gave her a knowing glance, shook his head a little, and smiled despite himself.  
  
"Well." She grinned and sidled up to him. "I can still call you 'boss', if you want."  
  
He cut her a look and she laughed, twined an arm around his shoulders and insinuated herself closer to him. She slipped her hand free of his and walked her fingers over the top of his thigh, gave him a sidelong grin and shrugged. "Sue me. I'm still riding high on beating the bad guys." She could feel his muscles flex beneath her fingers, could almost taste him, she was so close to him. And god_damn_ he smelled good; enough to make her want throw one leg over him and straddle him while they drove.   
  
Her eyes grew heavy, half-lidded, and her grin became decidedly more mischievous. "Which reminds me; I've still got a promise to make good on."  
  
Angel's brows rose and he struggled valiantly to look nonchalant, distracted from driving as he was. But she could feel the rising tension in him, could feel his muscles tighten with anticipation. If she could feel him, smell him, almost taste him, what must it be like for him? She knew his senses were better than hers. It must have been torture to have her so near, to have her teasing him like this  
  
"Yeah?" he asked, his voice just a touch too light. "What's that?"  
  
"Thing is," she teased, leaning just a bit closer, letting her warm breath flow over his ear. "I still can't decide if I wanna kick your ass or jump your bones."  
  
He turned his eyes away from the road, looked at her for a long beat. "We could pull over and find out."  
  
She blinked, then laughed aloud, unable to help herself. "You sound like me. Better watch out. I'm a bad influence." She grinned and traced the curve of his ear lightly with one finger. "Besides, don't we have battles to fight, evil to beat up on?"  
  
"They'll be there," he said, and his eyes were solemn, even backlit by desire as they were. "They're always there."  
  
"Yeah. I guess they are," she said, sobered for a moment by the thought. Then she smiled, eyes twinkling in the pale green dashboard light. "Besides, you've got a lot of years of celibacy to make up for, huh?"  
  
"That's what I'm thinking."  
  
They made it as far as the motel, but they didn't make it out of the car.  
  
And there, on the front seat of the car, skin lit by pale fluorescent street lights and framed by darkness, muscles stretching and straining in the darkness, they lived. Just the two of them, alone for that one brief moment, they lived for all those who had come before, for all those who had fought and fallen. For all the battles they would yet fight and the early death that was more a certainty than a worry, they grabbed the moment and squeezed it for all it was worth. Might as well make the best of what they had. Who knew how long they'd have it, after all?  
  
Afterward, Faith stayed in his arms, flirting with sleep as thoughts tumbled through her mind with restless abandon. Back street girl, poor town child, hell and back, a couple of times, and she lived to tell the tale. It wasn't going to be easy in LA, she knew. Probably just as bad as it had been in Sunnydale—maybe worse. But after what she'd been through? It seemed almost petty.  
  
Angel shifted; smooth, cool skin against her, and she smiled. He was right. She didn't need him. But damn, she _wanted_ him, and he was damned nice to have, and okay; love was a word she wasn't quite prepared to admit, and yeah, he was right about that, too…damn him.  
  
Life wasn't going to get any easier; he was right about that, as well. And he was right about another thing. She wasn't going to quit until she'd given everything she had, until she'd faced down the last enemy and tasted the last bit of sweetness she could steal. For the first time ever, she knew who she was, knew where she was going, knew who she wanted to be, who she would become.   
  
And it was funny. The one thing she'd wanted, the one thing she'd struggled for, had been within her power all along. Her life, shaped by the Powers as it might be, was hers to do with what she willed. She was her own. And nothing—no one—could ever take that from her.  
  
She could deal.  
  
Whatever waited for her on the road ahead, Faith had a feeling it was going to be one hell of a ride.   
  
And there was nothing she loved more.  
  
  
  
FINIS  
  
  
  
  
  
_______________________________________________  
  
  
_Ending Notes – thanks, credits and thoughts  
_  
_200,000 plus words, people. 200,000 words and more than a year of my life. I think that's worthy enough to warrant some egocentric end notes :)  
  
First of all, as always, feedback is loved and adored and cheerfully answered. LJ comments, reviews, or email to onyx@themirrorsedge.com are all happily accepted :) And if you have any questions, if something wasn't resolved well enough for you, don't be afraid to ask. I probably have the answer but just couldn't manage to fit it into the story. Also, please check out my site (if you're reading this elsewhere) for my other fic at www.prozacgirl.com   
  
Now; thanks. Right as Rain, you beta'd for me through 30 some chapters, and I can't thank you enough for that. You really helped me and supported me throughout, and you were always pretty much in agreement about what I was uncomfortable with and what was good. That helped me to grow a lot more confidence in what I was doing. Debxena, you came in in the eleventh hour and helped me through the last several chapters, and I couldn't have done it without you to catch my errors and ask the tough questions about what was going on. Thank you. I feel like I've become a better writer because of both of you.  
  
And, just as importantly, thank you to all the readers who've supported me throughout. Imation23, David Goodman, Kate, Ludditerobot, Faith and Wesley Rocks, Carolyne Rosseau; thank you guys all so much. Your constant comments and enjoyment and even questions about the story have made it so worth while for me to write it. I appreciate it more than you know. There were a lot of times I felt like I was letting you all down by taking so damned long to finish writing a chapter, but you all hung in there and kept supporting me, and I can't thank you all enough for it.  
  
Lastly, thank you to The Cure, Mesh, DiVision, Garbage, Morrisey, Lifehouse, Rob Zombie and all the other bands who made the music that helped set the mood for me to write this story throughout.  
  
There are also a couple of people I have to credit. The moment towards the end, when Spike brings up the idea of Angel singing Copa Cabana, was totally inspired by a bit of dialogue from wisteria's wonderful "Blueprints" fic. I don't want to ruin the joke, so I won't go into detail, but suffice to say I laughed so hard at what she wrote and loved it so much that I felt a need to incorporate it. I give her full credit for the idea.  
  
Also, the inspiration for the Winnowin—and this probably comes as no surprise to Stephen King readers—stems from his novel (co-written with Peter Straub) called "The Talisman". I needed an object powerful enough to pose a real threat, and the idea of the Talisman that they created really worked for what I wanted to do. I put my own spin on it, but it was their idea that inspired me.   
  
Now. About the story itself. Skip this part if you like; it's mostly about my thought processes and decisions, but I figure some of you might be curious.  
  
When I started out writing this story, I was determined to do something that no one else was doing. I wanted to do something different. I love all the good Spuffy fic and such out there, but I wanted to be different. I wanted to do an epic. An action/adventure/comedy/drama that followed the hero's journey with one of the candidates that deserved it most, and Faith, whom I've always loved for her troubled, tormented I-want-to-be-a-hero-but-I-always-manage-to-fuck-it-up pain, was perfect.  
  
I had the basic plot planned out from the very beginning, from the very first chapter I wrote. I knew that Faith would end up in Sunnydale with Angel and this strange Watcher woman who would slowly become important to her life in ways she didn't understand. I knew that Beatrice would end up being a villain, and I wrote her with that in mind from the very beginning. Angel's comment in Chapter 3 about her not being human that turned out to be a joke? A little tongue in cheek that I really enjoyed playing up to. I also knew that I was going to bring Buffy back, and do it completely wrong and that it would be the Scoobies' fault from the very beginning. The dream scenes were all very deliberately written to foreshadow that. By the fifth chapter, I had written down a basic outline of how things would play out to the point of Buffy's return being discovered, and the Council putting an ultimatum to Faith to kill Buffy. Some of my ideas changed a little throughout, depending on what made sense in relation to the story progression, but mostly stayed true to what I envisioned.   
  
There were, however, some things I didn't count on. Faith and Angel spelled into sleeping together so that Angel would leave? Yeah, I planned on that. But what I didn't foresee were the logical character conclusions I'd have to come to in order to reach that point and make it believable.  
  
I had every intention of NOT writing a romance. I was determined not to do that. Not because I don't enjoy romance—I SO do, I'm such a sap—but because that seemed to be the focus of almost every story I'd read centered in the Buffy universe, and I, once again, wanted to be different. So imagine my dismay and surprise as Angel and Faith began to fall for each other. My even greater dismay as I resigned myself to the romance, only to find that she and Spike were determined to get it on with the amazing chemistry and bizarre kindred spirit understanding between them. I couldn't make them stop, and for a long while, I was torn about which way to go with that, because the two of them together, their scenes… I have to tell you. They were so natural, easily the quickest scenes I wrote, and I rarely had to reread or re-write or re-think any dialogue or actions between them. And not because they were simple scenes—but because I just knew, intrinsically understood the love/hate, the bond between them. And I was incredibly annoyed that having resigned myself to one romance path, I was now having to consider another. The characters totally took that all into their own hands and ran with it, while I watched with amazement and dismay the words typed by my own hands. But romance turned out to be an important part of the plot, as much between Faith and Spike as Faith and Angel, or even Buffy and Spike or Anya and Xander. And in the end, I ended up loving every single bit of it.  
  
After a while, I figured out that Faith and Spike may be kindred spirits and perfect to write together, but I still believed she and Angel had a lot they could learn from each other, because they are similar in the ways that truly matter. I gave final acknowledgement to the attraction and kindred spirit shared between Spike and Faith, because that will always be there, but by about halfway through the second book, I knew she was going to end up with Angel. It seemed right.  
  
__Willow__. Willow let me know early on that she was going to have a big part in the plot, from the moment she magic-ed __Tara__. At that point I began to figure out how she was going to fit, because I knew, that just like the real 6th season, she was going to end up being the major villain in the end. I didn't plan that at the outset, but once it happened, it seemed right. I felt she and Faith's storylines complemented each other nicely. I thought a bit about having a final piece with her and Tara, or possibly Giles, to go over what she had learned from it all, but in the end I felt her lesson was obvious in her decision not to take the path of power and her admittance of and sorrow over what she had done afterward. So I left it at that.  
  
Buffy and Spike. I did not want to have them together. When Spike walked into that cavern and saw Buffy with the Master and Daeonira, I fully intended for him to turn and walk away and go back to the Scoobies to get help. And then my fingers typed him saying "Sod that", and I realized it would be completely out of character to have Spike walk away from her then. And then I had to scramble to figure out how to work that angle. The prophecy of good and evil necessary to come together to retrieve the Winnowin was made up on the spur of the moment as a reason to have him stay and not get killed out right by the Big Bads, because Buffy was not going to walk away from her path. I'd planned on the Winnowin, but not on how exactly, or when, or where it would be gotten. And once I had them together, I realized that it was right in keeping with the Season 6 themes. Buffy using and then betraying Spike played perfectly to that. Not to mention that I wanted the chance to make his life exceedingly hard and funny. His scenes afterward were some of the most fun for me to write, especially with the homeless woman and Cordelia.  
  
Tenth and Fox… Truth? I wanted to introduce some original characters and ended up short on words at the end of the chapter they were introduced in, so I added them. Not without figuring out who they were and vague reasons they were there, mind you, but it was sort of a frivolous thing. Original characters always come with some nervousness. You have to think about the Mary-Sue factor, and the fact that most readers of fanfic aren't going to care about original characters as much as the characters from the show. But they ended up being very pivotal to the plot in minor ways that would have been difficult to do without them. I was very pleased. They were a lot of fun to write, and I may use them again someday.  
  
I'm still amazed at the way I kept throwing in random things I didn't plan on and still managed to tie them all together.  
  
The ending… that was the hardest. How to get it just right? My original scene between Faith and Angel had her belligerent and lost and somewhat desperate, sort of passively letting Angel choose her despite how terrible she felt about herself. And then I realized, after the desert scenes between her and Buffy, after what she went through fighting Daeonira, it just wasn't going to work. She'd come into her own at that point, and it needed to be a decision that she consciously made, to be with Angel, not just passively giving in because she cared. I re-wrote and added to that scene more than a dozen times. It started out incredibly gooey and sappy. Pretty, sweet, but too overdone. I wrote it originally to be placed before they went out to rescue Buffy, then realized it was too soon for that, because it was the big revelation moment, and I wasn't done squeezing the angst out of the story. So I decided to use it for the end. And then it didn't work. Once I got Faith's voice in that scene more certain, more distinct, everything else fell into place and I realized the rest of the ending I'd already written was almost perfect. I thought the party at the end might be a little cheesy, but I felt it (and the slight comedy of it all) was necessary to tie up all loose ends. The goodbyes and thanks had to be said, or else, what was the point? I also originally had Faith being rather reluctant and reserved during her final scenes with the Scoobies, and then realized that at this point, it wouldn't be that way. She'd come too far. So I had to re-write those, as well. Her and Buffy's scene was also a nightmare of writing and re-writing to get out what had to be said and leave things "okay". Spike and Faith's ending scene? The easiest one I wrote, again.  
  
Angel keeping his soul was a hard choice. I wanted it, because I wanted him to be able to make a real choice about what he wanted, and I wanted Faith to have a real chance with him without all the melodramatic bullshit. Their relationship has complications without adding the star-crossed B/A twist, and I wanted it to be different for them. Still, it seemed a bit… dues ex machina. Almost like cheating. I wrote really hard to make it not seem that way, and in the end it really worked, I think. Like he said to __Willow__, it doesn't change anything for him. He'll still do what he's doing, still be a hero.  
  
I decided a long time ago that this story was going to have a fairly happy ending. Not fairy tale happy, but as happy a one as you can hope for in the Buffy-verse. No way was I going to let it end angsty or unhappily after all I'd written and everything everyone had been through. This may surprise people who've read my other stuff, but I'd invested so much personally that I needed a happy ending.   
  
Have I thought about a sequel? Only about 20 chapters ago. I'd love to do a story someday with Faith and Buffy trying to work together, given their relationship at the end of this story. Would love to explore Faith's adventures with the Angel team. I don't know if it will ever happen. Sad as I am to say goodbye to this story, it feels finished. Probably because I need a break __J__ But still, it feels final enough to satisfy me. For now.  
  
I have a lot favorite scenes. The scene between Faith and Spike in the sewers when she falls apart in Chapter 7 of Book 2 stands out as one. Another was the beginning of Chapter 11 of Book 2, when Faith and the Scoobies are patrolling. And of course, Chapter 5, where Faith and Spike get drunk and snark and try desperately to ignore the undercurrent of undeniable sexual tension. But really, I love all the moments. It may not be the best fic ever written, but it accomplished what I set out to do, and I'm very happy with it. I hope you've all enjoyed it as much as I have. It's been one hell of a ride, and I thank you all for coming along with me. I'm going to miss it.  
  
_


End file.
